


Ye Saga Continues

by RoseyPoseyPie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Footnotes, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Las Vegas Wedding, Magical Pregnancy, Multi, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Plot, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Swearing, TV Series Compliant, Trans Female Character, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 132,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19811587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseyPoseyPie/pseuds/RoseyPoseyPie
Summary: The prophecies of Agnes Nutter return not even a year after they were thought to be destroyed, and they don't paint a pretty prediction. The Hosts of Heaven and Hell are still seething from their failed war, so much so that they might take any opportunity to pursue it, including an alliance. God, meanwhile, has her own ineffable plans to pursue, somehow involving an American woman and the second coming of Christ. Across the pond, these events and those to come wrench Aziraphale and Crowley from their retirement and limbo. If they ever want a chance to return to their creature comforts, they might have to help save creation. However, they are not prepared for what they face: the dangers of Heaven and Hell pale in comparison to the minefield of their unfettered desires.Also known as Crowley and Aziraphale go on a Great American Road-Trip, Gabriel and Beelzebub make an arrangement of their own, and God's pregnant handmaiden refuses to let this story becomeThe Handmaid's Tale.





	1. Crude and Proud Creatures Baying, All I've Ever Done Is Hide

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! And welcome to my first Good Omens fic! I can honestly say that I had no idea I would fall so hard for this fandom when I first saw the TV series, but here we are. I just really, desperately wanted to play in this universe, and all of a sudden I had original characters and sequel-style plotlines popping up like daisies, and I went with it because I was having fun. I have no idea where I'm going with this (that's a lie, I have vague ideas) but I just felt like sharing. So, I hope for those of you who read, you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worst day of Rome's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things:  
>  \- Crowley and Aziraphale aren't even in this chapter I just when hard on my OC, but they will be here soon, and I love them.  
>  \- I learned how to code footnotes in honor of the late Terry Pratchett and also because I love footnotes.  
>  \- I came up with this idea a few weeks ago when I passed out in the bathroom with food poisoning. It was one vivid dream that somehow, I managed to turn into something coherent. I hope you enjoy it.

ROSEMARIE “ROME” LOWELL was the sort of young woman who was painfully easy to love, and yet, had gone through life earning very little of it. The paradoxical existence of the little love dear Rome knew could be rooted quite rigidly in the fact that the poor thing, as easy as she was to love, never got close enough to anyone for them to ever see her as she genuinely was. Rome may only wear denim jeans and cotton shirts in the literal sense, but in the figurative sense, the woman marched around wearing the most impenetrable armor made of adamant.[1] Without anyone genuinely knowing who she was and therefore how easy she was to love, she never earned any love to salve the ache in her soul, and consequently, she only committed harder to her fierce and impugnable façade as it was the natural response to her pain. The cyclical, self-fulfilling nature of Rome’s lack of love and the armor she wore around her soul for it was once the only home she knew still couldn’t completely extinguish the intrinsic brightness that made her easy to love. For that reason, Rome, even at her most guarded, was still a likable enough young woman.

When someone first came across Rome Lowell, the thought that immediately popped in their head tended to be that she was pretty. Rome was pretty in a delicate, innocent, unassuming, unimposing sort of way. She was pretty in an everyday way, aesthetically pleasing, but nothing worth drooling over, the kind of way that guaranteed if she made any effort in her appearance beyond the barest of hygiene and clothing herself, she could be a bit more than pretty. Rome, however, did not care that she was pretty or could be a bit more than pretty. No, that is a simplification: Rome liked how she looked perfectly well, she was grateful for relatively clear skin and a face that had earned her favor when Rome needed it, but she never tried to be anything more than she was. It wasn’t out of some innate self-love that Rome lacked the compulsion to participate in the arduous processes that many of her peers subjected them to regularly.[2] Instead, Rome failed to participate in these aspects of society simply because she had better things to be doing with her time, and she lacked the grand self-hate that seemed to be built into the very core of those around her that motivated them to spend thousands of dollars in the pursuit of perfection. Rome was not perfect, and she was relatively indifferent at the thought of attempting perfection. She quite preferred focusing on survival before she considered anything else.

So, yes, the first thing they noticed was Rome was pretty. She was a slight, petite young woman, barely five feet tall. She had a head full of thick, dark hair, which she often kept tied up, out of the way, as economically styled as possible. Her brow was moderately heavy, a couple of stray hairs drifting down the edges of her face, but it framed her eyes quite nicely. Her eyes, now, that was where Rome’s prettiness seemed to be concentrated. Her eyes were large, round, and full, drawing in anyone who looked at her. Their color was a sort of ever-changing grey depending on the light, sometimes darker like a slab of slate, and sometimes brighter like pale silvery clouds. Her face was shaped like a heart, fuller at the forehead and slimmer at the chin, and her jawline was not weak, but it certainly was passably feminine more so than masculine. The assumption about Rome from first glance was that she would speak in soft, soothing tones, or perhaps she had a sweet lilt to her voice, to match her delicacy. Then, all assumptions were rapidly extinguished when she first spoke.

Rome was born and raised in Grenada, Mississippi. For that reason, she spoke like it. Perhaps in Mississippi, Rome’s syrupy drawl which was as heavily humid as a Mississippi summer wouldn’t have stood out, but in Tucson, Arizona, where she made her life, it was a bit of a surprise. Rome’s voice might have been the second thing people realized, but the words coming out of those perfectly-bowed pink lips in that thick accent were always the third. Once people got over her southern drawl and slang, which for absolutely no reason gave the initial impression that she was uneducated, it became undeniable that Rome was smart. Perhaps she wasn’t the sort of woman who could pull off complex quantum physics calculations, but that didn’t mean she lacked any ounce of wit. In fact, perhaps she had more brains to her than all of NASA put together, because she was observant and perceptive wherever math and science escaped her.[3] The scientists who spent their lives squinting at spreadsheets of data and blurry pictures of the world beyond, as eager and brilliant as they were, paled in comparison to Rome in actually _understanding_. She didn’t speak with long words people only learned while digging through a thesaurus, but her intelligence was evident with how undeniably right she was with everything she said when she decided to say it.

Then, the fourth thing and fifth thing were a sort of strange, enigmatic parable, yet interwoven deduction people sometimes failed to make correctly, depending on how they learned. The fourth thing was that Rome was as rough and tough as rawhide, and bitter to boot. She was tenacious since birth, and the backwoods of her backyard had kept her that way, but it was through the pain that Rome Lowell had become the seventy-third strongest human that would ever exist.[4] Of course, her strength was not the ability to move mountains with her hands. Her strength was the unyielding determination she possessed. It was a pity, then, that she had taken all that strength and swaddled herself in it, so she was isolated in a cocoon of loneliness. Rome had not been born into the family she deserved, but it was the family that taught her some of her most important lessons, even if they were done so cruelly. Rome’s most vital lessons came from her father, a Baptist preacher who had gone to Africa on a mission in his youth out of his prideful righteousness in Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Rome’s father was one of those preachers who told stories of suffering sinners and merciless mercy and divine devastation. He told stories of judgment and immolation, the enduring quest of salvation. He talked about an all-loving, all-powerful God who wreaked suffering and horror on His people. Rome was taught she didn’t deserve the love she had, that only through fanatically memorizing the Bible until she could recite it in her sleep and living by those mistranslated words could she hope to earn some of it. He was also the sort of father who taught his lessons with a belt and a flight of stairs. So, Rome learned at a young age to hate herself in pursuit of loving herself and honoring God. It was only through her absolute determination did she learn indifference. Rome was too young to leave, being barest of sixteen years old, but she left anyway. She lived in a car, got a job, finished High School, and then moved to another state to go to college, never daring once to glance back.

The fifth thing that people learned about Rome was that she was virtuous and loving without reason. Rome’s relationship with religion and God were complex. Growing up, she loved God as much as she was told He felt for her, but since she hated herself, she couldn’t help but hate the Almighty in turn. Then, once she was indifferent to herself, that was the same sort of feeling she had for God. She understood that there was a higher power; it wasn’t a matter of faith; it was absolute truth to her. Inexplicably, she knew as much as she knew her own name that there was God and Satan, angels and demons. In spite of her knowledge, she did not care. She was wholly indifferent to the dichotomy of duality, of sins and virtues, of God and Satan. She did love one thing: creation. She loved the world and everything in it. If you ask her why she loves people, Rome will say because it’s the right thing to do. Rome never cared once about God’s decree to love others, but she did it anyway because she was a human capable of ethical reasoning and compassion, and everything else was merely common sense. Rome was kind because she had known unkindness, she was charitable because she had starved, she was patient because she had faced blind fury, she worked hard because she needed to, she was temperate because moderation was survival, and she was chaste because she wanted love first.[5]

The sixth thing that people realized about Rome was that she was a bit of an eccentric young woman. So eccentric, in fact, so different from what was expected, so abnormal from what was traditional, that she gracelessly toed the line between “eccentric” and “disaster.” For example, everything that Rome wore she acquired on sale at the thrift store, meaning that her closet was an amalgamation of multiple different types of clothes. Repetitive features of her dressing included Hawaiian shirts with esoteric or colorful patterns, denim jeans of any wash and fit, graphic tees with obscure or outright strange images or words on them, hoodies that were either oversized or cropped and usually patterned to boot, Bermuda shorts in a variety of psychedelic shades, soft flannels of every possible color and pattern, and loose flowing pants with drawstring waistbands and tribal prints. Every outfit that Rome wore made those around her assume that she was behind on her laundry, which she tended to be, but that was not why she looked the way she did. Rome’s eccentricities also expanded to her way of life, as she was harrowed continuously, overworked, and half-drawn into deep thought about something that wasn’t relevant to what was actually happening. It gave her a presence of never being present, and if the circumstances were not correct, conversations with her could possibly be one of the most confusing things any soul had ever attempted to partake in, and that included deciphering furniture assembly instructions that were entirely in phonetic Klingon.

And finally, the seventh thing that people realized about Rosemarie “Rome” Lowell is that she was important. Some people never realized this about her, or if they did, they denied their realization because how could a woman be inexplicably important? Maybe they didn’t completely understand what made her so valuable, but there was something about her that came to the surface that radiated significance in some indescribable and unfathomable universal scene. And for Rome, it took until she was twenty-three years old for that importance to be founded.

* * *

THE WORST DAY of Rome’s young life wasn’t a day where one, lone horrible thing happened that ruined the day forever, but rather it consisted of a sea of small things that indicted her to suffering, and a few more substantial items that ruined the day all the more. The worst day of Rome’s young life actually began the night before, as she plugged her phone in to charge, exhausted after getting off an evening shift at the diner she worked at. She had class in seven hours, and hopefully, if she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, she could get five hours of sleep. Her alarm was set, but her dead phone needed to charge before such an alarm could go off. She was far too tired to check that the screen lit up with the charging sign when she plugged it in, and if she had an ounce more energy, she would have seen that the USB port in the wall was too far out by about half an inch for the phone to charge. But, Rome was too tired, too overworked, too sore on her feet, and so when she went to sleep that night, nothing was promising her to be awake the next morning.

She woke up eight hours later with a terrible start, as she realized she was _too_ well rested. She picked up her phone, and it was as dead as last night, and she knew she was in trouble. She leaped out of bed and over to the small kitchenette in her studio apartment, the flashing oven clock told her not only had she slept through her first class of the day, but she was also very well on her way to missing the second. A hearty string of expletives spewed forth from Rome’s mouth as she rushed to the rickety wardrobe beside her bed, held together with duct tape, gorilla glue, and a minor miracle. She searched for clean clothes to find barely anything, cursing herself for having put off laundry for so long but it was too damn _expensive_ to go to the laundromat. Especially after her landlord had brought up rent by a full ten percent that month, she was pinching pennies to afford groceries on top of her school payments and bills. She certainly didn’t have the luxury to wash her clothes in a proper machine. She was considering pulling extra shifts at the diner, but then that would be less time doing her homework, and she was just five weeks away from graduating from the accelerated master’s program if she could pass these final classes and finish her thesis. She had managed to maintain a 3.7 GPA after nearly ten semesters at the University of Arizona while working part-time all the while, and she wasn’t going to miss her opportunity to graduate come hell or high water.[6]

Rome streaked out of the apartment in her haphazard dressing, a partly unzipped backpack flapping open and closed behind her, and went down to her car in the parking lot, wrenching the door open after scraping the key through the lock, tossing her bag on the seat beside her, revving the engine of her old Honda Civic, and driving as close to the speed limit as she could muster with the massive anxiety of being late thrumming through her chest. When she reached the campus, she realized with great distress that she had left her wallet in her purse. This meant not only did she not have a functioning phone (she hadn’t even bothered to charge it when she dashed out the house, so it was still sitting dead beside her bed) she did not have her school ID, her driver’s license, her debit card, or any money. Which meant there was no easy way for her to park on campus, or use a spot with a parking meter, as they all seemed to have. It took fifteen minutes and three blocks away from college for her to find a place to park for free without worry about her car being towed. Then, she ran as fast as she could to try to get to her lecture at the barest of fifteen minutes tardy and not a moment sooner. She did, most embarrassingly, trip over her untied shoe while pounding up the stairs, and she promptly slammed into the stone and tile beneath her, harsh corners making flashes of pain spring up her arms, legs, and torso where the body and ground collided. She cursed wildly, hauled herself back to her feet with the railing, and continued her procession to her class.

She crammed herself into a chair in the back of the room, avoiding the glances of her classmates who were surprised to see her arrive so late and so clearly harrowed. She took notes on the lecture with a single ballpoint pen, it was the only utensil she could find in her entire bag, and it went out of ink halfway through. Meaning she had to, with all the embarrassment of her lack of self-sufficiency, kindly request of her neighbor to borrow a writing utensil of any sort. She would have settled for an off-brand crayon, to be honest. After a judgmental expression that she felt was well-deserved, she was able to resume taking notes hurriedly with the borrowed click-pen as if to make up for her lull. Class ended mercifully, and she had only one left for the rest of this godawful day. She gave the pen back to the owner with a satisfied smile and went with far less rush to her next class.

It was in this next class with a painful trickle of slimy, slithering cold did she realize there was something inherently wrong with her. She had set her alarm two hours before class so that she could go to one of the printing centers on campus before class. She had needed to go to one of the printing centers on campus because she had an essay due. An essay which, if she remembered the syllabus correctly,[7] was worth fifteen percent of her final grade. There was a slew of curses she muttered under her breath, but the next steps she had to take were obvious. She had to go up to the professor, explain that she was having an off day, and beg on her hands and knees for even the slightest extension so she could print out the essay and turn it in. She could go to the printing center immediately after class if he let her,[8] she just needed a bit of mercy. And so, she went up to the professor, with her eyes wide as they got and her face as sweet as she could make it, and she did her best to beg without sounding like a whiny or petulant child.

“Doctor Clearfield,” She said tentatively. He looked up from the notes spread out on his desk. “I’m embarrassed to say that I, er, don’t have my essay. I mean, I have it here on my computer, but I had a bit of an unfortunate morning and, well, I’m sorry to say that I never had a chance to print it out.”

“How long have you known about this essay?” Clearfield asked, voice an old, tired, exasperated croak.

“For weeks, but-”

“And why hadn’t you printed it out before the morning of?”

“I usually never had any problems with my timing, Professor, this is the first time this happened all semester, and, well, there were extenuating circumstances-”

“What’s my policy for late work?”

“Turn it in later for partial credit, losing ten percent for every day it's late,” Rome cited.

“Well, then, turn it in tomorrow. You know my office hours.”

“Yes, sir,” Rome sighed, going back to her desk. It wasn’t the end of the world. She had to remind herself.[9] She had worked her ass off on that essay, yes, but even a grade with ten percent taken off the top was better than nothing. Like many things in her life, she would survive this as well. It was just, well, frustrating, and embarrassing. She didn’t want to cry in the middle of class, but it took furious blinking for the burning to wane in the backs of her eyes.

The class came and went, more lecture and writing until her hand was starting to ache. She skipped the printing center. Instead, she dropped into the office hours of the class she had missed that morning and with even more embarrassment, tried to ask and explain what had happened that morning. The little silver lining of the obstructively and oppressively dark cloud of that day was that this professor was a lot more accepting. Waving off Rome’s embarrassing story of a lapse in responsibility, she assured her student of the unavoidable presence of bad days and made sure she was able to catch up what she missed with her own time and a little extra work. Rome felt nominally, barely, to the smallest sliver in better spirits when she left. She got back to her car which she had parked in a residential neighborhood, sighed as it seemed a child had taken chalk upon it for being in the vicinity of the more appropriate canvass, the concrete driveway,[10] and driven back to her apartment building. Rome had three hours before she had to head down to the diner for another shift, this one less graveyard than the night previous. She finally correctly plugged her phone, checked her email, and got to work on all the catching up she had to do.

Her bad luck, most regrettably, followed her to work that evening. She dropped two platters of food and spilled scalding hot coffee on a customer’s lap. She apologized profusely, and the lost food was taken out of her wages, but she was lucky nothing worse happened the entire time. When she walked out six hours later, right before the graveyard shift began, she had about twenty dollars[11] in tips tucked into the inside pocket of her jacket.

When she was driving home, she stopped at one of the intersections just off the highway, as the light had turned red. She noticed, burrowed in a pile of blankets on the median, was a homeless figure trembling in the chilly March air. She didn’t like to ignore the homeless. She remembered when she was living in weeks old clothing and sleeping in the backseat of this very Honda, and people looked at her when she went through the world like she was invisible. Most people, when coming across a homeless person trying to whether the night preferred to lock their doors and pretend there was nothing there. So, when she caught the eye of the figure burrowed, she offered them a small smile and a nod. They blinked at her, as she knew, likely never having received an acknowledgment. The person could be seen more clearly now that they looked at Rome, and she was startled to see how young they were. Why, they had to be as old as Rome was when she lived by herself, ward of the state and all. The crumpled ones in Rome’s jacket felt like they were burning. Rome’s rent may have gone up, and she may not have enough money to go to the laundromat, but she could wash her clothes in the bathtub, she’d done it before. She could make rent, she still had a few more weeks, and she could manage a shift or two. And really, those glazed over eyes needed the money more than Rome did. She had eaten today, and she knew the expression as one she used to wear when she didn’t. She rolled down the window, and the homeless person stood up, the little more of them revealed by the blankets only furthering their androgyny, and Rome didn’t want to assume. She handed them the money through the window.

“Thank you,” they said.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, sweetie,” Rome assured them. The light turned green, Rome didn’t look at the intersection, but they knew based on the light reflecting across the steering wheel and dashboard. They looked ahead as they drove forward, not having looked both directions because the cross traffic clearly had a red light and not many were out this late anyway. It was for that reason alone that Rome failed to see the minivan speeding like a hellbeast of fire and fury[12] until the car collided with the passenger side door and shattered the appropriate window, blasting glass at Rome. The airbag went off, and the sudden cacophonous collision and wrench of force knocked Rome unconscious.

* * *

WHEN ROME WAS finally aware of her existence once again, she was completely confused by her surroundings. For a moment, everything around her was a very bright white. Then, suddenly, she was sitting in a garden. It was a perfect garden, in Rome’s opinion. The ground was a lush meadow, tall grass, and wildflowers swaying in a gentle breeze. There were trees all around her, forming a thick canopy on all sides but not directly above where she sat. She was sitting on a bench, and although it was clearly made of stone, it was somehow also warm, soft, and comfortable to be seated on. She looked up at the sky above her and recognized the beautiful sky without any light pollution, billions of stars twinkling above and the vastness of the universe looking back down at her.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” A prim voice asked. Rome snapped to looking over at whoever was speaking. Walking from the trees was a figure. This person utterly entranced Rome. First of all, Rome realized that they had to be more than a person. Deceptively, they looked like a human woman. Tall with a long face, and pale hair that was somewhere between white, blonde, and silver. It did seem, perhaps with the light, that the short hair curling over the woman’s brow was changing color. Also, her eyes were changing, Rome realized. They were dark blue, but they were swirling and sparkling. It was like the universe was inside of her irises, continually evolving and morphing. And of course, everything about the woman was just… off. Not in the wrong way, there was nothing eerie about this woman. If anything, it was quite the opposite. It was just clear that the face and the body before Rome was a façade, and that something far more powerful existed in that same space, the edges of infinity blurring around her.

“The sky?” Rome asked.

“All of creation,” She responded. She sat down beside Rome on the bench. “I suppose it’s a bit self-congratulatory of me to say how much I love it.” Rome shrugged. Her father would have said pride is a sin, but now that she was with the actual authority on the matter, she didn’t think parroting her father’s misguided fanatics would bode well. “Do you want to see all of it?” She asked. Rome shrugged, out of interest more than anything. The sky in a blink of an eye transformed. The billions of stars were now trillions upon trillions, clustered together so tightly and in such a stunning array of colors it was like ever-chromatic daylight gleaming down on the pair sitting on the bench.

“I reckon it’s pretty,” Rome said. “It’s also quite a lot.”

“I have a tendency to get ahead of myself,” She agreed, lips quirked like there was some inside joke. “Then again, I made infinity. Can’t get much larger than that.”

“So, who are you?” Rome asked.

“I think you know, Rome,” She said. “I think you’ve known who I am since I came to visit you.”

“If you are who you think you are, and you’re actually here, then am I having some death-induced dream-?”

“You aren’t dying,” She assured Rome. “You’re just sleeping.”

“So then why are you here?” Rome asked. “Something tells me you don’t usually drop in like this.”

“No, not usually,” She agreed. “I have a question.”

“You’re omniscient, surely you know the answer to all questions,” Rome replied shortly.

“One would assume,” She said, a smile tugging at Her lips. “But there’s a difference between knowing and understanding, I’ve found. And while I know the answer, I was hoping you could help me _understand_ the answer. Maybe we could understand it together.”

“So, what’s the question then?” Rome asked.

“Would you rather fight one hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?” God asked. Rome blinked at Her in surprise.

“Is that really your question?” Rome asked.

“No,” God laughed. “You’d rather fight the small horses. You would only fight the large duck if the total weight of small horses were equal to or more than the weight of the large duck. Which, if we’re assuming average weights, would make the transition of your answer at about five hundred duck-sized horses. I understand completely. I just wanted to relieve some tension.”

“Oh,” Rome looked up at the Almighty in surprise. “So, you _do_ have a sense of humor.”

“I created humanity in my image,” She said. “Everything they have, I have: Of course, I have a sense of humor.”

Rome nodded and mulled that over for a moment before asking, “So what’s your question.”

“Why did you leave?” She asked. Rome glanced idly at Her, eyes goading for a bit more of a thorough question. “You used to love me as much as you loved anything, and then one day, you stopped. Or rather, you stopped slowly over several years, but you understand to me it happened very quickly.”

“Why do you care?” Rome asked. “About me. I mean, surely there are _thousands_ of people falling in love and out of love with you all the time. So why do you wonder about me?”

“Because I don’t understand, and I doubt you do as well,” She replied. “I know, in some sense, that you stopped loving me the day you stopped loving yourself. That I managed to comprehend. What I failed to really grasp was _why_.”

“I felt you inside me, and I felt for you as you felt for me,” Rome agreed. “And I loved myself, but I also hated myself. I hated every error, every reason why I wasn’t in your perfect image. And I was so sick of feeling both of them, so I decided not to feel anything at all. Does that make sense?”

“But why haven’t you gone indifferent to everything else, then?” She asked. “You still love humanity, and dogs, and spiders, and dandelions. Sometimes you hate parts of them, but you _always_ love them. So why is it just you and me that you stopped feeling anything for?”

“I…” Rome was at a loss for words. Rome stared blankly at the infinite abyss in Her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I still love you,” she said.

“You also hate us,” Rome said. It wasn’t just her hate from the Almighty that she objected to. No, it was everybody killed in hurricanes and concentration camps and homeless shelters and needless wars that she objected to. How could they all have died so uselessly if it wasn’t for a creator that, even if She loved them, also hated them just a little?

“Maybe a little,” She agreed, speaking Rome’s thoughts in a way that struck the young woman. She did it all with an expression that was so incredibly fond Rome felt like she was being filled up with a supernova of brilliant light. “As much as anything hates something that they can’t truly control but so desperately wished to.” She sighed. “Maybe I don’t hate you what you are, perhaps I hate you – and all my creations – for what they _do_ more so than for what they are. And, therefore, I don't hate them as much as I hate their actions. I’m The Creator, but that doesn’t mean I’m exempt from all the problems every other creator has. I made everything, that was fun, and I set things up, and when I started, I always had plans about what I _wanted_ to see occur. But then when I actually let it all in motion, and I actually watched what unfurled, it didn’t exactly go as I hoped – or rather, expected. The consequence of giving my creation concepts like free will, choice, chaos, and entropy were that I could never get my world to be perfect. I was angry at first, how easily it got away from my best-laid plans, and how in all my vast creative power things happened naturally and far better than I could have ever done with intention. But then I started to, well, I surprised myself with how much I _loved_ all the new developments. All my hard work and my favorite things were accidents I had constructed but never realized were aligned until things fell into place. Oh, I hated some of them too, but as you know, you can love and hate something all at once. Maybe it wasn’t exactly how I thought things would go, at first, but the more I watched it happen, and I watched humanity happen, the more I realized I wanted to give it its own chances. And in the last six thousand years, my creation has only convinced me more and more to give in to change. I had to adapt to my own creation and to see how beautiful it all is; I’m quite pleased. I’m also horrified, sometimes, and how hideous it can be. I’ve looked away more times than I can bear.”

Rome nodded weakly, wondering how long this strange dream was going to last, “Why are you here, then? Saying all this to me? It’s not to make me change my mind or anything, is it? Surely I’m just a drop in the bucket-”

“Oh, Rome,” She said gently. “Those who still live their lives, more or less, in the way I hoped everyone would is one of my favorite side-effects of free will. Especially when you look at the mountains who live in complete inverse to my recommendations and say they do it for me but actually do it for some idol, one I never wished to become. You don’t care about what I want, and yet to decide to be kind out of pure humanity. It gives me hope as The Creator that even if I can’t keep them loving _me,_ they can love all the things that I made, and therefore all the things that are a part of me.”

“Are you trying to tell me I still love you?” Rome asked.

“I think you do, in the way that it counts,” She agreed. “I think you also know that love isn’t just a feeling. It’s an action. An action you are always willing to take. I think the only thing you forgot how to love is yourself. And since you always learned to see me in you, to see that you were mine, you had to stop loving me as well. Am I right?”

“Maybe,” Rome asked. “You’re God - you’re everything.”

“I am,” She agreed. “And you hate me too, sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Rome echoed. "You can't go through life feeling only one thing."

“And that’s alright,” She insisted. “Of course It’s all too complex not to hate sometimes. But all the hate – even at its most blinding – it could never erase the love. The love is always more, infinitely more. And the hate can go as quickly as it comes, so having temperance is vital in case that momentary hate spurs you to something you might regret. I’m sure you understand that.”

“I do,” Rome nodded.

“Not too long ago. The whole of reality was gearing up for Armageddon, the end of everything, the final battle between Heaven and Hell.” God explained, “I didn’t really care much for the war, but that was where everything was headed, as it seemed from the very beginning. And I was… well, I wasn’t wholly ready to let everything go, and Lucifer set things in motion as he always promised, things were getting a bit out of hand – or according to the plan depending on who you asked - and who was I to object to my own Great Plan? Of course,” She chuckled. “Humanity managed itself once again![13] It was quite lovely, really. Before Heaven and Hell and cosmic war, all I wanted was Creation. And my creation, which I love more than anything, and the humans that live in it, which I love more than anything, keep doing what I hoped they would do, and then they do more than I could’ve ever dreamed…” She sighed, “I can’t deny that there are a lot of terrible things too that developed along the way. Mistakes in the interpretation of my plans from the very beginning in my angels, fallen and not, and in my creation. I fear humanity, although it saved itself not too long ago, might also destroy itself in the next century. The four horsemen may yet be successful with humanity’s stimulation. War, Famine, Pollution, they came back far too quickly. And, of course, Death has not and never will go away.”

“Shouldn’t it be Pestilence?” Rome asked dumbly, so overwhelmed by everything else that God had said she homed in on the one thing she really had some half-intelligent insight on.

“Oh, Pestilence retired. Another one of humanity’s interesting little doings,” She said. “But this whole anti-vaccination ordeal is making them wish they didn’t. Now, my point is, I want to give humanity the chance to save itself. And I think I know the best way to do that, something I’ve kept under wraps for quite a while, a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency type thing. But I’ll need your help, Rome, for it to be successful.”

“Me?” Rome asked. “Me?!”

“You.”

“Me,” Rome said dully. “You want me to… what?”

“To carry the future of humanity. If you love humanity, and I know you do, this is your best way to prove it,” She continued. “I know that it's asking quite a lot of you. In fact, I’m probably asking too much of you.”

“Surely you want someone more devout,” Rome said.

“Devotion isn’t knowing words written by prophets in a book translated a dozen times,” God said. “In the ways that matter, you are as dedicated to me as anyone. You’ve always understood, even when others told you that you didn’t. You question and you study because that’s how you celebrate the world around you. You’re so perfect and brilliantly human,” She said, smiling broadly at Rome as if she had given her the highest compliment in the Almighty’s inventory. Rome felt the flutter in her chest from how significant it was. “Today proved that to me so wonderfully. And I want, more than anything, for the world’s best hope to be as human as they come. If I’ve learned anything, humans are far more complex than either side gives them credit for. And it will be humanity, their perfect imperfections, and their brilliance and being not one way or another that can give my creation a proper chance.”

“But I’d be alone,” Rome said quietly.

“Oh, oh my dear,” She clasped Rome’s hands, looking at her with all the motherly concern Rome had never earned in her life. The love and care in Her eyes took Rome’s breath away. “Believe me; you have _never_ been alone. Lonely, perhaps, and I am so desperately sorry for that. But alone? Never.” She sighed. “I understand your fear, of course. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you aren’t lonely anymore. If you accept.”

“You need me to accept?” Rome asked.

“I need you to accept,” She nodded. “I can hardly put my grace and the hope of humanity in you without your consent.”

“And what if I don’t?” Rome asked.

“Well,” She spoke like a lecturer trying to explain a very complex philosophical concept, a circumstance Rome was familiar with, “I could _try_ to find someone else to accept in your stead, but I find it unlikely on such short notice. You were one of those brilliant little things that got away from me and became wonderful with pure entropy and free will. And then, oh, if I can’t find anyone else; I suppose I’ll have to leave it up to humanity. Perhaps they’ll surprise me and do it themselves, in the end, I suppose it is always up to themselves, but, I mean, you live down there. Earth needs to be saved, and I need you to help it. To save it by bringing it its best hope and guiding that hope to their destiny. Really, it’ll be up to you, at the end of it all. There’s only so much I can do down there, I see it now.”

“You really want it to be _me_?” Rome asked.

“See that?” She pointed up at the sky, the brilliant universe still trillions of stars. “I’ve only shown very few. Understanding creation’s vastness is a rare gift I rarely bestow. And you know what they always say when I do?”

“What?”

“They want me to put the sky they know back,” She said. “Do you want me to put it back?”

“No,” Rome said. “It’s pretty. It’s a lot, but… I love it.”

“Then we have our answer, don’t we?” She asked.

“I guess we do,” Rome said, surprised that she actually agreed to this. It was a vast, monumental, monstrous commitment. It would be the hardest thing she ever did in her whole life, that she was sure of. And yet… and yet if it meant she could help humanity, how could she _not_?

“I have one, smaller favor to ask of you,” she said. “The companions I send you. Please help them for me. It’s been going on six thousand years and I… well, I’m just a tad impatient. There’s only so long you can wait for the things you set in motion to actually happen.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

“You’ll understand,” she said. “I can’t promise you’ll remember this, Rome, I'm infinite and unfathomable for a reason, but I promise you’ll understand everything. In a way, you always have.”

“You have to go?” Rome asked. She nodded. “Goodbye then. I’d say, ‘God Bless You,’ but that’s a bit redundant.”

She smiled, “I appreciate the sentiment.”

And with a start, Rome awoke in the back of an ambulance, the dream and all recollections of it extinguished from her mind with the blare and chaos of the first responders around her.

* * *

[1] Adamant, not to be confused with Adamantium that exists in fictional superhero stories, is a metal out of classical thought that is said to be the strongest ever to exist. Quite fascinatingly, however, Adamantium could have been an equally sound comparison to Rome’s self-constructed armor. After all, the figurative pain the poor dear endured to garner such a rough exterior is easily comparable to the fictional pain of binding nonexistent metal to human bone. It was only the fact that the lovely young woman was so inherently good that she had managed to survive her past at all.[return to text]

[2] Such as coating the face with paints, extracting hair where it grew for the purpose of being smoother than a dolphin, and wearing clothes specially selected to highlight all that was best.[return to text]

[3] If the dear ever had any interest in understanding integration, drug interactions, or quantum theory, she could have quickly learned. The fact of the matter was, and this was where all of Rome’s brilliance tended to be rooted, she knew what she needed to know, and nothing more and nothing less.[return to text]

[4] Others on the top 100 rankings include, of course: Joan of Arc, Elie Wiesel, and Britney Spears.[return to text]

[5] That isn’t to say she was bothering to wait until marriage. But she wanted to be irrevocably enamored with whoever she gave herself to and have them adore her in complete return. In fact, Rome lacked even the desire or the urge to have sex with another person unless they loved her, as sex for the sake of sex seemed as unappealing as trotting through a pool of snails.[return to text]

[6] Or the second coming of Christ.[return to text]

[7] She did, of course.[return to text]

[8] Even if the professor had let her do such a thing, Rome had still forgotten her wallet and ID at home that morning, and printing was not free. She could have probably begged a peer for a few quarters to pay for seven pages in black and white, but Rome’s day was with such terrible luck she never even had a chance to be a beggar.[return to text]

[9] That had been August a year prior. Or rather, it had _almost_ been the August a year previously.[return to text]

[10] The art was nothing that inherently bothered Rome. It was just a childish rendition of trees and flowers. Perhaps if the circumstances of her whole day were less miserable, she would have been affectionate of the impromptu custom bodywork on her old dark silver Honda Civic. But as it was a bad day, the child’s art became a slight annoyance more than anything. Another thing to add to the list of the terrible day because it had reached the point where Rome’s only solace was being able to complain about the fierce magnitude of how awful and horrible this day indeed was.[return to text]

[11] Her bad luck, to a lesser extent, had also permeated to the fact that every customer she seemed to have that night left little more than a few dollars if they left anything at all. Perhaps her service had been that poor, but who could blame her with how horrible her day had been?[return to text]

[12] There was actually no intervention from below in this instance. The driver was a Mr. Gerald Burton, and his wife, Mrs. Cecilia Burton, was currently in labor. It was through her intense screaming at the apex of a particularly nasty contraction and their shared panic that neither of them had seen the light turn red or the dark Honda Civic enter the intersection. Once the collision happened, Cecilia _had_ screamed at her husband with the aforementioned fire and fury. The good news was that the Burtons were not harmed, and their third child and first daughter, Miss Kaylie Burton, was delivered in perfect health in the back of an ambulance seven minutes after the car accident occurred.[return to text]

[13] With the incompetent help of a demon and an angel who had really become more human than angelic or demonic. It was so wonderful for God to see Her creation coming together and mutating in a way She never expected. Now, the demon and the angel had been one of the more welcome surprises. God watched the two since Eden, and She couldn’t help but feel fond about the whole thing. She loved the pair of them so dearly, as much as She loved anything, and so seeing all these things She loved all congeal into something so beautiful, really, they were quite pleased with creation sometimes.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for those of you who read this, it's not what I usually write, but I'm having a lot of fun with it. If you could be so kind as to give some feedback in the way of kudos/comments/bookmarks or whatever flights your fancy. I have a Tumblr account if you're into that sort of thing: rosieposiepie.tumblr.com


	2. There's Something Foreknown to Me, Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prophecies of Agnes Nutter return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read so far. Thanks especially to those of you who provided feedback in any of its forms. I appreciate you all, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter.  
> \- It introduces Jolene Davis, the other original character central to this plot.  
> \- The Reliquary of Odd Things is inspired by a real place I regret visiting.  
> \- I told myself I would do fewer footnotes this chapter, and then I immediately failed.

JOLENE DAVIS HAD worked at the _Reliquary of Odd Things_ in Austin, Texas for the last five years. The museum was a collection of oddities compiled by the owners over the previous decade. Artifacts that they used to sell until they realized the strange, weird, one-of-a-kind artifacts really weren’t worth selling. Especially when they could all be crammed in a cluttered room behind plexiglass and seen by the curious tourists for twelve-dollar admissions. The Reliquary itself was an inspiration of the likes of P.T. Barnum[1] and other sideshow attractions. Half of everything in it was fake in some way, and the few real things were relatively explainable. Shrunken heads, for example, had well-documented processes of existence even if they were an initial shock for the average tourist in Texas. Likewise, the rest of the realistic attractions were just medical anomalies or poorly explained artifacts from non-western cultures. Many of them, including the prize attraction (a frozen yeti corpse), was entirely constructed by the owners. What more, an entire floor was just dedicated to wax figures of movie monsters and associated props. The Reliquary lacked enough actual artifacts to fill the whole building in downtown Austin. The only part that always seemed to be crammed was the gift shop. Even after a lukewarm tour of the oddities, a fair number of tourists were enamored with the novelty items and occultist books available in the cramped front of the building.

Jolene didn’t like working at the museum because when she had first interviewed, she actually though the Reliquary would have the appropriately odd. Jolene was a great fan of strange things, mostly because she spent the best part of her life, realizing that she was one of those weird things. And, by that, Jolene was not referring to the fact she was assigned male at birth, that was perfectly normal. No, the peculiarity of Jolene was that she knew things she shouldn’t know. It had started when she was young, she always seemed to be aware of other people’s secrets in a way that was, undeniably, odd. And then, of course, she had fallen into things like tarot cards and crystals and boxing gloves, and it all spiraled from there. When she was twenty years old and bored working at her father’s garage in Bannockburn, Illinois, she decided to make a living of oddness. So, she traveled to Austin, the city that was self-described to be determinably “weird” and attempted to make her fortune. When she wasn’t working at the Reliquary, she had two other jobs. She was a bartender in the downtown area and gave some of the most coveted ghost tours in all of Austin. As oddly as she tried to live her life, Jolene still felt like there was a rather large obstruction in her life between what she ought to be doing and what she was doing. It was something she oughtn’t to know, but she did, quite like all those secrets.

The day that everything changed for Jolene was the day after Rosemarie “Rome” Lowell had been T-boned by a minivan and impregnated. Of course, Jolene didn’t yet know the significance of the event that had happened two states over in Tucson, Arizona. Jolene was working the gift shop desk that morning, convincing tourists to see embarrassingly obvious hoaxes and novelty items of little worth and value beyond their, well, novelty. Jolene was there, behind the register, eyes roaming across the tourists. Watching them was perhaps the better thing to do with her time than playing with her phone, which was by far the more appealing. The bell at the front door jangled, indicating another entering the Reliquary. Jolene glanced up and was surprised to see a very put-together young man in a pressed suit with a sort of dazed expression on his face. He carried a briefcase in one hand and an old letter in the other and walked directly up to Jolene at the register with a dazed look in his eye.

“Are you Jolene Davis?” The man asked.

Jolene blinked at him, completely bewildered by this turn of events and sensing something incredibly odd was afoot, “Yes.”

“Wow,” He gasped. “I’m sorry, I just, we’ve had the instructions for this delivery since the very _founding_ of the firm and now… why I’m just stunned. And now, to think I would be the one to deliver the book to the chosen girl? I feel like my whole life has been leading up to this day.”

“Okay…” Jolene trailed off, wondering what sort of odd sort the Reliquary had attracted now.

“Here,” He said, handing her the briefcase. “You’ll know the code.”

“Excuse me?” Jolene didn’t ask out of surprise or shock; instead, it was just a genuine desire for clarification. It really did seem to Jolene like there was more to this ordeal than what was being let on.

“It says it here!” he exclaimed, thrusting the letter in Jolene’s face.

> Dear Mr. Porter
> 
> I write to you for I have explicit instructions from the Last Witch in England, Agnes Nutter, to deliver the contents of this case to your possession for safekeeping. In several years’ time, and by which, I mean as many as a century if the witch is correct, you will make a delivery from this case into the one person who will be able to open it. As compensation for this exchange, see the attached prophecies of Nutter and use them wisely. We further know that the youngest partner at your firm will be the one to determine and deliver this briefcase and message when the time comes. For the sake of all that is well and good, I hope you do your best to make sure you will have a new partner lined up when the time comes.
> 
> Agnes’ instructions for the delivery follow:
> 
> Tuentie twyce yeers aft the Savior’s Berthe  
>  The Capitle wheyr the Lowen Star wavethe  
>  Inne the downses where the auld and odde and false riside  
>  Sharl there beeth chosen girle of Dawllie Parson name  
>  And she shalt been as Jolene Davis  
>  And she shalt open the lock’d caise  
>  Wheyr my saga dost contynue on inne thy world anew  
>  And she shalt read mine wordf and understant
> 
> Thank you dearly for all your help,
> 
> Sincerest Regards,  
>  Sir John Garfield, Esquire.

Jolene gaped because, well, what else could someone do when it was clear that this whole thing was quite odd? Perhaps all of this could be considered an elaborate prank except “chosen girl of Dolly Parson name” struck a chord in Jolene. She had, after all, decided to change her legal name to Jolene after the song by Dolly Parton of the same title. It was a fact she had never told another soul before, so how on Earth could this Agnes Nutter know? And Jolene always had been good at recognizing things she wasn’t supposed to, secrets and the like. She had never tried to use her strange intuitions to open a combination lock, but perhaps this could be an exception. After all, it had seemed to be prophesized by a witch from antiquity. Jolene’s hands took to the case with a soft tremble, and she turned the old combination lock with deft fingers, the metal disks clicking into place. She didn’t know what compelled her to spin the numbers 1621 into the combination lock, but it worked, and the lock clicked open the case opening.

“God,” the man whispered in awe.

“What do I do now?” Jolene asked.

“You do what Agnes says,” He replied, turning around and heading out of the Reliquary as if his life depended on it.

Inside the briefcase, there was an old leather journal. It had a worn cover, frayed pages, and the slightly musky and dry scent of old leather. Jolene turned to the first page, where it was neatly printed in large letters:

FURTHER NICF AND ACCURATE PROPHECIES OF AGNES NUTTER CONCERNING THE WORLDE THAT IS TO COME: YE SAGA CONTINUES

Jolene closed the journal and the briefcase, relocking the set quickly and tucking it under the register counter. She would deal with that and all the excitement from it later.

* * *

WORK FINALLY ENDED and Jolene sat at her dining table, the old musty briefcase sitting beside her. Jolene often knew things that other people didn’t know. She knew things that she had no business knowing except for the fact that she did know them, irrevocably. It had kept her alive, being a transgender woman of color in modern America. She always knew that she was supposed to do something odd, but she never reached the peak of oddness. Until now, really. Sitting here, staring at the briefcase and the combination lock, it all felt oddly like destiny. Jolene had researched Agnes Nutter, learning about her being burned alive by the Witchfinder Army and blowing the whole village to hell with gunpowder in her skirts. Jolene had decided the woman was undoubtedly worthy of respect, but there was still so much she didn’t understand. For example, why was it was Jolene who Agnes had decided to be her next agent of fate? That was what Jolene assumed all this was about. Why else had Agnes Nutter gone to such stunning lengths to make sure it was Jolene Davis who inherited the continuation of her good and nice prophecies?[2] This was fate, plain and simple.

Jolene’s hands returned to the briefcase, slipping the disks until the case clicked open. She took out the dark leather journal, careful of the binding and the pages. It smelled old, like a dusty bookshop, or old rawhide. Jolene sighed, her hands running carefully over the pages as she turned past the title page to the second one.

> [1] The girle of mis’d identitie sharl readeth these wordf  
>  Upon a table of swede origin and moste flat woodes  
>  And she shalt rekognise the verye waye of thy portionne  
>  Withe papyrus skware and nare she copieth my wordf

Reading Agnes Nutter’s words was at first the weirdest thing Jolene had done. But it was strange in the most beautiful way, the most absolute way, the way that Jolene realized was the way she had always sought. The oddities, the ghost tours, the disgusting cocktails, it all leads up to her sitting at this IKEA flatpack table, reading the words of a seventeenth-century witch. What more, when Jolene read the words of Agnes Nutter, it was like the answer to the questions she always had. Jolene had intuitions and feelings, she knew things she couldn’t possibly know for reasons she never comprehended. But now, reading Agnes, it all made perfect blinding sense. Jolene’s feelings and intuitions worked perfectly with the vague, cryptic messages of Agnes as if she was able to translate a language the two of them had invented. She didn’t know what the future held, but Agnes did, and she knew what Agnes meant. What more, it was clear that Agnes’ prophecies were written for their use. The first one Jolene read was the first one that she needed to read. This was why Agnes said she should write the prophecies on square paper! Because index cards in a little case would be a far more straightforward way to organize the likely hundreds of prophecies that Agnes had transcribed in her saga. And, when it was time for Jolene to understand a prediction, all she had to do was pull out a random card, and she would know what she needed to. It all made perfect sense, for making no sense at all, but that was a proper oddity, and Jolene could not be more pleased. She packed up the journal carefully and drove to the nearest office supply store. She would need index cards, a case, and some very nice pens.[3]

Jolene had never been so purely ecstatic in her entire life. Once she was at the checkout, the worker at the register in his uniform polo was eyeing Jolene oddly, as she bounced eagerly on the balls of her feet.

“You must really like index cards,” he joked as she snatched the bag with glee.

“You have no idea,” She assured him with a bright smile. She was flapping and wringing her hands at her chest the entire way from the automatic doors to her little car parked neatly in the lot. As the bag swung wildly in the crook of her elbow, she basked in the sensations around her. Her hands, relaxed but flopping and flying before her, was always soothing. It was a way for her to take all the crackling in her chest and buzzing underneath her skin and put it somewhere else. Then, she was like a livewire of oddities. She had always been vaguely aware of when things were suitably weird, for that reason alone, she had stayed in Austin for as long as she did. However, now the faint peculiarities lurking in back alleys and sewers were dancing in the streets, colorful and chromatic and so brilliant. Jolene wondered how she had ever failed to notice how strange the city was. She was itching to join the dancing in the streets, is this how witches felt? Is this why they danced nude at a bonfire? Because Jolene was so dizzy with this validation, the strangeness, the vivaciousness of all of it, she would easily strip down and dance it if meant getting to always feel like _this_. It was clear to Jolene why she felt like this: purpose. After twenty-five years of exploring directionless and wandering, everything was so crystalline. The intuitions that always were more of an animal’s instincts for survival were now blooming and stretching out of Jolene until she felt like she was a part of everything.

It took Jolene eight days and barely any sleep to copy down all of Agnes’ prophecies. Eating, sleeping, bathing, and especially work all were put on the back burner. In fact, work had been tossed out the window. Jolene didn’t need to work anymore, thanks to Agnes. She had a lottery ticket stub which would earn her ten million dollars in three days. That would be enough money for what was yet to come. Writing the prophecies certainly was an arduous process. Jolene had to do hand exercises and listen to blaring punk rock to keep up with the sheer magnitude of work that was ahead of her; but if Jolene was anything, she was capable of becoming so singularly focused on an essential task that all of reality ceased to exist. And so, Jolene worked with her packet of nice ballpoint click-pens and her index cards, neatly copying out Agnes’ imperfect spelling until the words all bled together in mind-numbing perfection. Jolene’s copies of the prophecies were entirely without error, exact replicas of Agnes’ neat and flowery scrawl, now printed in Jolene’s tight and structured hand and stashed in a mint green case. Once it was all done, once every prophecy was recorded, Jolene let out the heartiest and happiest sigh. She was feeling exhausted and boneless and promptly fell asleep at her IKEA table.

With her lottery money, she left her apartment and bought a camping RV with a reasonable sum of her winnings. The rest of it she would save for when she needed the funds. Satisfied that prophecy 38 had been fulfilled, Jolene’s fingers and palms were itching to fulfill of the nice and accurate prophecies of Agnes Nutter. She went over to the mint case where it sat in one of the cupboards of her kitchenette, hidden behind a box of cereal. She popped open the latch of the briefcase and let her fingers skim over the crisp corners of the prophecies. She pulled out one when she was drawn to it.

> [573] Wheyr the hevenly bibliopole’s shoppe silt stand talle  
>  Theyreunto yonder, Alph Izarde Falle, ’tis verse findes itselth  
>  And also graytefully receiveth verses 574-5 in turn and theys con  
>  For whensefort the goodly maid’s carreyng the secund Christ

Jolene blinked at the passage several times and got to work at understanding it. The first thing she realized, before anything crossed her understanding, was that a woman was now pregnant with the second Christ. This realization was the most overwhelming, most dizzy, and most spectacular realization Jolene ever had felt.[4] But as she reread the passage, more of what it meant trickled into her. First, she had to find this heavenly bibliopole.[5] Then, she had to send the appropriate verses to him. She was glad she had remaining index cards because she wasn’t ready to part with her copies. She made sure there were duplicates for this person of interest. “Alph Izarde Falle” was likely a name of some sort, but Jolene was a bit lost, all her research of the exact search fell through. She finally, when searching upon the internet for the clues she needed, typed “A Z Falle[6]” into an internet site and was promptly linked to a bookshop in London: A.Z. Fell & Co Booksellers. It didn’t have a website, but it had an address and a phone number. And that was all that Jolene needed to do what Agnes needed her to.

So, carefully, Jolene went to a post office for international postage and sealed the three prophecies into the envelope addressed to A.Z. Fell & Co. When she dropped them into the slot for mail, she felt a bit like she was sending a child out into the world. Or she was pressing a domino and watching the miraculous artistic mosaic of tiles finally arrange themselves as they were always meant to. It was the most significant, most peculiar feeling, and Jolene could not be happier. It would take a week for the letter to make its way from Austin, Texas to London, England. In that week, Jolene’s hands didn’t itch at all to go back to the mint case, but she did work on the three prophecies she had sent out just to understand them with full clarity. After all, if this bookseller was essential to what Agnes had foreseen, then it was important for Jolene to understand as well. When Jolene wasn’t reading internet sites to better understand Agnes’ predictions, she took advantage of her mobility to visit national and state parks and walk around. She enjoyed the sky and the earth in a way she never had the privilege to when she was working three jobs to exhaustion. It was undeniable: Agnes Nutter was the best thing that had happened to Jolene Davis.[7] Jolene wished that she could shake the hand of Agnes and thank her profusely for all the strangeness Jolene had spent her life chasing and finally finding. Agnes, of course, had always known how Jolene would be grateful for the delivery of her books and was quite pleased that the future she knew was in the best and most responsible hands.

* * *

AZIRAPHALE WAS READING in the back room of his bookshop. It was quite a common occurrence for the angel in question. Finding comfort in a good book, with a mug of warm cocoa beside him, and his reading glasses perched on his nose was one of the many indulgences the angel allowed himself.[8] Others continued dining at fine establishments and sampling human foods, with the accompaniment of his dear friend, the demon Crowley, and going for walks in St. James’ park, again accompanied by Crowley. Other activities that Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves participating in included going to shows[9] and museums to spend hours pretending to be as human as possible. Sometimes, Crowley would even accompany Aziraphale for his private reading in the back room of his bookshop. Crowley often didn’t read, citing that his serpentine eyes were not appropriately suited for the fine print of Aziraphale’s books. But sometimes, he would request for Aziraphale to read to him, watching Aziraphale steadily with those golden, slit eyes. Aziraphale was certain his rapt attention was merely him paying attention to the book, but it certainly felt sometimes like _he_ – the angel - was the entertainment Crowley observed more so than the reading was. Other times, he merely sprawled himself out on the tartan couch in Aziraphale’s backroom and slept. The angel would then read silently, casting occasional glances to see how the veneer of malevolent bravado the demon oft wore faded to something quite pleasant when he was vulnerable from sleep. Crowley slept with his long legs and arms thrown out and taking up an inordinate amount of space.

Of course, on this day in question, Aziraphale was alone. He and Crowley did have dinner plans tomorrow evening, which he was quite looking forward to, but the demon insisted he was unavailable today for important business[10]. Likewise, although Aziraphale’s shop was open, there was such a torrent of springtime rain outside that he hoped desperately it would ward away any potential buyers. He was not ready for the emotionally taxing process of dissuading a customer from taking something from his collection. It was in his titillated stupor with his book in question that he was wrenched from when the bell jangled and Aziraphale repressed a groan. He slipped a silk leaflet between the pages and closed the book, tucking his reading glasses into his breast pocket and going to see what poor soul he would have to try to ward away from the store. Perhaps he was lucky, and they were interested in the dreadfully boring modern section he had added a while back, after the Apoc-was-not-alypse, for the sole purpose of having _something_ to sell. When he stepped out from his backroom to see the person who entered, he was somewhat relieved but also confused to see the person standing in his entryway, trying hard not to track mud into the store, and keeping the door closed not to let in the rain was a member of the postal service.[11]

“Are you the owner?” The mail carrier asked.

“I am,” Aziraphale replied politely. The man handed him a letter. “Oh, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” The carrier nodded. “Have a splendid day.”

“Likewise,” Aziraphale said with a little nod. Only once the man was gone, and Aziraphale turned the sign on the door to closed (this was unprecedented mail and deserved his full attention) did he look at the letter in question. It was addressed to him, or rather, it was directed to “The Owner of A.Z. Fell & Co. Booksellers” with the address of his shop beneath. The return address was a sticker for a post office in, how peculiar, _Texas_. Aziraphale wondered idly whatever person in the United States, and especially Texas had a business to do with him. He opened the envelope carefully and extracted the note inside. As it unfolded, three little index cards fluttered to the floor. He stooped down to pick them up, and once they were collected and safely pinched between his second and third fingers on his left hand, did he read the letter.

> To Whomever It May Concern
> 
> I am the keeper of the Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter: Ye Saga Continues. I have been in possession of these prophecies for the last twelve days as of the date 4/13/19 and I have been slowly understanding them and why I was chosen particularly by Agnes Nutter to carry out her prophetic designs.
> 
> I write to you because Agnes has said that three of her prophecies (573, 574, and 575) ought to be in your possession, and so I obliged. I hope that you find whatever you need when you read these prophecies, as I am still in the process of trying to understand them.
> 
> I hope you find through Agnes whatever you hope to.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Jolene Davis

“Nutter!” Aziraphale gasped as he finished reading the letter, and then he read it twice more for good measure. He had thought that Agnes Nutter, the last witch in England, the last true prophet, had finally finished all she spoke of after the Armageddon that was not. However, it seemed that the old woman had a sequel. Why it wasn’t even a year ago that Aziraphale had almost faced the end of Earth and Humanity, and he was not eager for, well, a second round, as it were. But what choice did the angel have? This new keeper of prophecies – Jolene Davis – had given him this information explicitly at the witch’s request. With the slightest tremble, he refolded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope, looking at the three prophecies before him.

> [573] Wheyr the hevenly bibliopole’s shoppe silt stand talle  
>  Theyreunto yonder, Alph Izarde Falle, ’tis verse findes itselth  
>  And alse graytefully receiveth verses 574-5 in turn and theys con  
>  For whensefort the goodly maid’s carreyng the secund Christ
> 
> [574] Sennite the day ye sweetings readeth myne wordf  
>  Thou and thy rapscalionne peradvent fare to the basen of blackhill  
>  And ye beholde fair handmaid whoos frute be innesooth Christ  
>  Thou must sayfgard the vestyl damsal with thy serpent  
>  Fore nithings of up and down and otherwherf seeke Christ  
>  But thryce Hosts be malapurt and seeke to stop The Lyon  
>  So thy and Christ’s mother pertage the babe out of township owld  
>  Fore God’s childe sharl be the saviour of creafun and humanity
> 
> [575] The maid of God will be afrite as she knoweth the Lord  
>  Fore hereupon God’s acre and glebe she be perswayed  
>  The Mother of God be hight Mary o’ Roses, luwe of alle  
>  Yet this jade calleth herself an owld empyr burned

As always, Agnes Nutter’s prophecies were a tad difficult to understand upon first read. However, the significance of the words that were not lost on Aziraphale. It would take quite a bit of intense studying to determine precisely what the vague portents meant in great detail, but what took absolutely no critical thinking was that dear Mrs. Nutter had written “Christ” five times throughout two prophecies. Aziraphale, as confounded as he could sometimes be in the face of Nutter’s terrible spelling, was still quite capable of deducting that the old prophetess had foretold the second coming and arranged it, so he _also_ knew of the second coming. Which was all rather exciting, mind-boggling, and upon a second more of thought, sent the angel into a tailspin of existential dread. This was a Big Thing. It hadn’t been too long ago that there was another Big Thing that had to do with The Ineffable Plan and that, while turning out quite peachy in the end, had really been more stress than Aziraphale was used to in a single century. Now, it was like he barely had a second to breathe (many months but for an immortal being it’s all quite comparable) before another Big Thing fell into his lap[12] for him to deal with.

If it had been a short while prior, his first thought would have been to contact heaven[13]. As an angel stationed on Earth, it had been his responsibility to be a messenger to the above, keeping them up-to-date on the affairs of earth. Of course, he often was quite sure his messages were not read even back when he was in Heaven’s good graces. But after he helped avert Armageddon and avoided being sentenced to extinguishment thanks to a very crafty switcheroo with his dear friend, the demon, Crowley, he no longer reported to the above. Heaven and Hell, for the most part, had left him and Crowley alone in a limbo of exile, no more responsibilities or duties or reports for their respective sides. The pair had when helping the young Adam Young prevent the fated end of creation, effectively defected to their own, third side in the great war between Heaven and Hell: Humanity’s side. For it was living among the humans that the pair of them had found this delicate and unwavering equilibrium, arrangement, alliance, and eventually, friendship. It was, therefore, maintaining humanity and creation that would maintain all they held dear, and therefore, their sole responsibility beyond enjoying the life they sought to protect.

Aziraphale hurried over to the phone and immediately dialed Crowley’s flat. The phone rang several times until Crowley’s prerecorded voice piped up through the speaker: “You’ve reached Anthony Crowley. You know what to do – do it with style.”

Aziraphale sighed. He was not a great fan of the newfangled phone answering machine that Crowley favored storing the messages Aziraphale wished to say whenever he called him. Crowley had explained leaving a message on this device was not unlike leaving a letter in a mailbox, the sort of conference that he could retrieve at the most opportune time. And so, Aziraphale recited his spoken letter.

“Dearest Crowley: I’m afraid to inform you that I’ve received a letter from Texas of all places, concerning the existence and contents of further prophecies by Agnes Nutter, and more importantly, her prediction of the second coming of Christ. It seems that with these circumstances, the witch sees us being involved, and we know how accurate she was previously. I recommend we arrange a time to confer over these developments and perhaps visit Tadfield to seek the advice of Nutter’s descendent, Anathema Device. I do hope you can contact me to discuss these unexpected events in haste, thank you. Sincerest Regards, Your Friend Aziraphale.”

* * *

[1] Barnum had gotten his start not long after a peculiar man named Mr. Crowley motivated him that exhibiting the blind Joice Heth as the ridiculously elderly and equally blind nurse of the long-dead George Washington was the best investment. Everything since, including admissions to see the autopsy of Heth’s body upon her death and the later exploitative circuses and sideshows ripe with hoaxes that enamored the nation, Mr. Crowley took credit for to his superiors, but Barnum was solely responsible. With great irony, it was an also a Mr. Crowley that convinced several members of 20th Century Fox to greenlight the strangely celebratory film of Barnum’s exploitative life as some uplifting musical starring Hugh Jackman.[return to text]

[2] Jolene had, of course, considered that Agnes had all done it for fun. Jolene wouldn’t be surprised that an old witch from the seventeen century might do something genuinely for the fun of it. After all, Jolene knew that she had misused her odd intuitions every now and again. If she could see the future, she would definitely mess with people. There’s a particular fun that comes with reality-altering foresight or intuition that even the most wholesome human couldn’t escape.[return to text]

[3] Jolene had always appreciated a nice pen. Her favorite pens were the nice ballpoint pens with color-coded caps at the very ends and the hard, plastic bodies. However, those were ridiculously expensive, even if their quality was incomparable. Jolene’s second favorite type of pen was a ballpoint gel pen with a clicker. They had the smoothest flow, and the reassuring smell of the gel ink always made the fumes curl comfortably in Jolene’s chest and assure her in absolute that she was at peace.[return to text]

[4] Up until this point, Jolene didn’t care much for organized Christianity for the usual reasons. That being said, it was now undeniable to her that there was God, and there was Christ as well. Jolene no longer cared about rules or sides, she cared about destiny. One could call the woman an agent of fate, and she would be glad that one did.[return to text]

[5] It took a little bit of time on internet research sites, but Jolene finally learned that “bibliopole” referred to someone who sold books.[return to text]

[6] “Alph” had related to “Alpha” or the letter “A.” Meanwhile, the word “Izarde” related to “Izzard” an archaic term for the letter “Z.” Those two deductions were necessary for Jolene finally determining where the prophecies ought to be sent to. Quite interestingly, the bookshop in question had horrendous reviews for being small, cramped, cluttered, musty, dusty, and possessing some of the strangest hours of any store within reason. The oddities were a good sign for Jolene, as strange things often led her to what she needed to find.[return to text]

[7] In a few months, it would be Rome Lowell that was the best thing that ever happened to Jolene Davis, but neither of them was aware of this yet, and Agnes knew quite well that neither of them would until the moment that they did.[return to text]

[8] He actually indulged in a fair number of things and could easily be called a hedonist. His love for creature comforts wasn’t necessarily because he felt like he was owed happiness, but because he loved God’s Creation and indulging in his favorite parts of it was one of the best ways to appreciate it.[return to text]

[9] Whether it be a play, an opera, a ballet, or musical theater, and on rare occasions the cinema (only when they played old silver screen films), the companions did not care.[return to text]

[10] The demon’s “business” was, in fact, a two-day nap in the warm and luxurious bed he found rare comfort it. But he didn’t tell this to Aziraphale lest it made him seem softer than a defected demon ought to be. Aziraphale, of course, already knew how soft Crowley was, and this protection of his reputation was purely habit.[return to text]

[11] It was dreadfully considerate of the man, and it was not lost on Aziraphale. For that reason, precisely, three days after their encounter, the man received a decent inheritance from a great uncle he did not know existed, and after a year and a half of trying, the news came that his wife was finally expecting a child.[return to text]

[12] Or more accurately, was politely sent in a neatly printed envelope sporting a stamp with a kitten on it.[back to text]

[13] Actually, for quite some time (since about the nineteenth century) his first thought for everything always pertained in some way to Crowley. However, the impression that he ought to contact Heaven persisted until the day after the failed Armageddon. Now, Crowley was not just what Aziraphale wanted to prioritize, it was what he _did_ prioritize.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! Thank you for reading! I always love hearing your feedback and generally knowing how you feel about my writing. So, if you could be so kind, I would appreciate your comments, kudos, and whatever other ways you would feel comfortable sharing your thoughts!


	3. All The Fear And The Fire Of The End Of The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consultation of Anathema Device.

ANATHEMA DEVICE DECIDED after all was said and done, and the apocalyptic events had been avoided, that she was entirely done being little more than a descendant of Agnes Nutter. She had done what she had meant to do and played her part to perfection, she might add, but once the smoke had cleared, she did, in fact, feel quite empty about the whole thing. Anathema had so many other things she could do with her life now, now that she was free of the confines of her great-to-an-obscene-degree grandmother’s predictions, as nice and accurate as they were. So, when the box had appeared of the sequel manuscript to Agnes’ prophecies, Anathema had decided that it was time for her to divest herself of her legacy and set out to find her own sort of way in the world. She had burned the pages without glancing at them once and turned to her new life and the infinite possibilities she had to take with it.[1]

One of the things she brought with her in her new life of free will, unburdened by what Agnes decreed, was her boyfriend, Newton Pulsifer. Newt was supposed to be, according to Agnes, a once-and-only-once lover while the end was nigh. However, after Armageddon had been stopped by a very human Antichrist renouncing his father, a fair bit of luck, and a rather incompetent angel and demon, Anathema had made sure that Agnes’ prediction was proven false as soon as she managed. Newt was not what Anathema had ever expected in a life companion, mostly because she had never thought to expect anything that Agnes hadn’t told her to. For someone who had been utterly inexperienced before Anathema met him, he was a quick and eager student and only seemed to improve as time went on. But their relationship was not entirely founded on the delightful carnal relations the pair of them shared. Newt was sweet, Anathema had to admit. He was loyal, he was dedicated, and he was clearly infatuated with her. He motivated her to do whatever she pleased with her life and was the most significant proponent for her self-actualization.

While Anathema’s family encouraged her to move back to Malibu and their comforts of wealth now that everything had come to pass, Anathema was quite comfortable staying at and eventually purchasing Jasmine cottage in Lower Tadfield. She had a lovely little herb garden taking over, which she used to start a bit of an apothecary, using her witchlike skills to peddle simple remedies and talismans to those who came to Jasmine cottage in search of help. The apothecary, of course, was an unofficial job she took on, a profitable hobby more than anything. Anathema’s real source of income was at the local Public Library of Tadfield, where she had used her accreditations to land a part-time job restocking shelves, helping the residents with research, and reading to the children on afternoons. Newt, her Witchfinder, had moved in with her as well several months after a back-and-forth between his mother’s house and hers. It had taken him a fair while to find a job that didn’t require phones or technology, as he was a ridiculously incompetent computer engineer, but eventually, he was working as a sales representative in Tadfield at a small technology and mechanics store, under the greatest irony. As it seemed, he was perfectly competent at explaining and advertising technology to others as long as his hands played no part in the assembly or programming of the computers in question.

Anathema and Newt lived comfortably in Tadfield, often entertaining a set of four young guests on the weekends who came over for organic home-baked goods and liked to do their homework at the kitchen table of the Device-Pulsifer household, babbling between each other with the adults occasionally piping up. Adam Young and the Them: Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale, were staples of the comfortable lives Anathema and Newt shared. After the four youths had defeated the four horsemen of the apocalypse, they had gone back to their regular lives of playing in the woods, going to school, and growing up. Anathema and Newt seemed to act as reliable part-time guardians to the children, often asked to watch one or many of the children when their parents wanted an evening to themselves. They were adults the quartet could depend on to indulge them not only in their make-believe, but the wide-eyed inquisitiveness of a growing mind an ever-expanding world, and of course, sweets and baked treats. When Brian had scraped his knee falling out of a tree, they had gone to Jasmine cottage for Anathema to tut at him while cleaning his wound with some essence of witch hazel. And when it was raining, but the children wanted to be somewhere other than their houses and their parents, they went to Anathema and watched strange internet personalities investigate the supernatural and unsolved.[2]

On the morning in question for the relevance of the story, it was seventeen days after Rome Lowell had been hit by a minivan, had literally met her maker, and had been tasked with saving all of humankind in a way that perhaps was not the best example of informed consent. Anathema and Newt were partaking in a particularly satisfying round of morning delight. They traded bitter kisses in the soft light of the late spring air and met the morning with sweet sighing bliss. Newt reclined back in the bed, a dazed and smitten expression on his face as Anathema stretched out of bed, threw on a robe, and padded over to the bathroom. He basked for a while longer in the beautiful morning, birds singing outside and the faint smell of the garden wafting through the barely-open window. He was broken out of his stupor when he heard the spray of the shower turn on and decided to stretch out of bed and join Anathema, arguing to himself that she always used up the hot water and the pair of them cramping together in the stall was really the best way to guarantee he could at least get a dribble of it. Anathema could have argued the only reason she always took so long in the showers and used up all the hot water was that his presence always extended the hygiene process with moments of intimacy and familiarity, but since she quite liked those moments, she decided to keep her tongue still.[3]

Then, once dressed for a lazy weekend day, the couple went downstairs and prepared breakfast together in the cramped kitchen, bumping and brushing past one another, exchanging small pecks on the cheek whenever they thought they could surprise the other. They sat together while eating, bare feet nudging together as their idle conversation drifted through the cottage. It was lovely and idyllic, and most, unfortunately, entirely impermanent. With luck for the couple, however, their morning was only interrupted while they were cleaning and washing up. There was a polite knock on the door. Once they failed to fling it open with considerable immediacy, there was a far more massive pounding. The couple shared a concerned glance and crept across the floors to the threshold, opening the door a careful crack. The odd pair standing on their stoop they recognized, of course. Anathema had first met the couple when they hit her with a car and accidentally stole her ancestral prophecies in the events leading up to Armageddon. As she later learned after the Assumed Great Plan had not happened the way the powers above and below assumed, the duo was an Angel of Heaven and a Demon of Hell, respectively, and they were both rubbish at it. They had helped end the apocalypse, of course, guiding Adam Young to renounce his destiny and save humanity, so they were good at something, but now what they were supposed to be good at. Anathema could sympathize. She had seen them only on a few rare occasions when they dropped into Tadfield to keep a distant but friendly eye on the growing Not-Technically-Anymore-Antichrist.

“Mister Crowley,” Anathema blinked at them, “And Mister Aziraphale. What a… surprise.”

“Dreadfully sorry to barge in like this without calling ahead,” the ever-polite Aziraphale said. “May we come in?”

“Yes, please,” Anathema nodded and stepped back, opening the door as she did so, so the supernatural guests could enter with ease. The demon glanced wearily at the protective talisman over the door before striding in without a twitch of discomfort. She led the pair to the cramped sitting room.

“I really do wish we could have visited under better circumstances,” Aziraphale began. “We were planning to visit.”

“When were we planning to visit?” Crowley asked the angel, interrupting him. As he asked the question, he squinted in confusion. His eyes couldn’t be seen past the dark glasses he always wore, but his brow scrunched considerably to indicate his confusion.

“We said we _might_ ,” Aziraphale insisted, sending a polite smile to Newt and Anathema who were only vaguely offended by the fact that they weren’t expected to host the entities in question. In fact, if they had never known that the guests in their sitting room did not have standing plans to visit, they never would have been offended at all. But it was out of those old societal sensibilities that realizing you were not wanted to host did one take the slightest offense even if there was no aspiration to receive such visitors. “But unfortunately, something has come up, something quite dire, and we were hoping for your advice and counsel, if you could be so kind, Anathema, my dear woman.”

“It’s not another apocalypse, is it?” Newt asked. The room glanced at him, idly for his bluntness. “I mean – we just got over the last one."

“Well, _hopefully,_ things will not become so severe as that,” Aziraphale said. “But it is rather, er, _big_.”

“Well?” Anathema asked, eyebrow quirking past the rims of her round glasses.

“Yesterday afternoon,” The angel began, “I received a letter from Dallas, Texas. The contents of that letter, I must say, were not what I could have anticipated.” He found the envelope in an inner pocket of his coat and handed it to Anathema. She looked at the letter and felt her teeth start to occupy the same space, only the nature of matter, keeping them from doing so, and her jaw was working quite hard to oppose that rule.

“Agnes,” she declared. Newt’s face morphed to immediate sympathy, and he reached a comforting hand to Anathema, his thumb rubbing circles in her flesh. “She had sent me a manuscript after Armageddon, but I destroyed it. I was done being a professional descendant, you see. I guess it was silly of me to think that I had received the only copy of her manuscript. She must have known what I’d do and had contingencies in place. So, someone else, this Davis woman, could…” Anathema shook her head and smiled with bubbling acid at the neatly printed letter, “So much for free will, I suppose.

“We’re very sorry to have bothered you with this,” Aziraphale said. “If its any consolation, we aren’t here because she told us to be here. We merely, well, hoped you could help us understand what advice she did offer.”

“Because the prophecies are important?” Anathema asked.

“Dreadfully so,” Aziraphale said. Anathema thumbed through the contents of the envelope and pulled out the prophecies, printed onto neat cards. Had Agnes recommended this tried and true method of understanding the prophecies to her newest disciple or was this Jolene Davis so luminary she managed to adapt the same techniques that had taken Agnes’ family decades to develop? The cards were slightly worn at the edges, the paper soft and less crisp, like they had been turned over and traded between hands several times, perhaps compulsively, in the last few hours. Her eyes finally skimmed the contents of these prophecies, Agnes’ common and poor spelling running through Anathema’s head as she attempted to translate what was being said into something relatively understandable. Some things would take more effort than others, but some things became brilliantly clear at first read.

“Christ,” Anathema muttered.

“What is it?” Newt became immediately concerned. Anathema did not often invoke religious names when she swore, and so he assumed whatever she had read was so horrible it drove her away from her habit.

“It’s about Christ,” Anathema repeated. “Not Adam, not the Antichrist. The other Christ. God’s child. He’s – this is the second coming.”

“Indeed,” Crowley said, having seemed to comfortably sprawl himself across more than half of the loveseat he and Aziraphale shared, so the poor angel was squished into the armrest. For his sake, the angel seemed entirely unbothered by their seating arrangements. “So, you can see why we came.”

“I do,” Anathema said.

“Well, hold on,” Newt said. “You aren’t a professional descendant anymore. You moved on from that.”

“You don’t have to help, of course,” Aziraphale insisted. Crowley looked at him with incredulous exasperation.

“Then what the hell did we drive up here for?” Crowley grumbled in an inquiry.

“To _ask_ her to help us,” Aziraphale said. “Not _make_ her help us.” Crowley seemed to open his mouth to protest but Anathema, now more business than anything, wanted less banter and more clarity if she would take on something, she had thought she left so long ago.

“I’m not a professional descendent,” Anathema agreed. “But I suppose that doesn’t mean I can’t… consult. If this is what I think it is, they really do need my help.” She glanced up at Newt. “Just for the day, I promise.” He nodded.

“Should I tell Adam and the Them not to come around for lunch today?” Newt asked.

“Maybe you could encourage them to take a picnic instead, so I could work without distraction?” Anathema suggested sweetly. “It’s supposed to be nice out today.”

Newt nodded and kissed Anathema on the top of her head, “I’ll be in the garden.” She smiled at him as he went out the back door.

“I do hope things are going well,” Aziraphale said politely. Crowley snorted and scoffed from all the small talk but didn’t say anything more of the matter.

“They’re wonderful,” Anathema said. “Now, let’s get to work,” she pushed her glasses up her nose and went over to retrieve writing utensils. “It seems to me like the first one you received – 573 – has already come to pass.”

“Indeed. That prediction was how this mysterious Miss Davis managed to contact me,” Aziraphale nodded.

“So, do you mind if we just accept that one and focus on the other two, yet to pass?” Anathema asked. “What is it that you’re certain of upon the first read, beyond the second coming?”

“Our involvement,” Aziraphale stated. “As it's clear, these prophecies were intended to go into my hands and the second especially refers to ‘thou and thy rapscallion’ which can only, of course, refer to Crowley and me.”

“Of course,” Anathema echoed, transcribing on the piece of paper beside her: _rapscallion = Crowley_. “This word here – ‘sennite’ – I believe it to be some sort of suggestion of time? Does it mean anything to you.”

“Sennight meant a week, didn’t it?” Crowley muttered as if he was in great pain to be useful and participating. “ _As You Like It_ , remember? Act three, scene two or something like that.”

“Oh, yes, I recall!” Aziraphale exclaimed brightly[4] with a wide smile gracing his broad face. Anathema jotted it down, “So a week from when this prophecy is received, we should find the Christ. Or rather, the virgin who is carrying Christ.”

“You sure she’s a virgin?” Crowley asked. “I mean, I know that’s what upstairs did for the last one, but things change, yeah?”

“But the prophecy refers to her as a vestal damsel,” Aziraphale insisted emphatically. When Crowley didn’t immediately concede to that statement, the angel continued in a voice like a tired lecturer, “Which is obviously an allusion to the vestal virgins-”

It must have been that the demon knew what Aziraphale’s argument was going to be because the moment the angel mentioned the vestal virgins, Crowley interrupted with a hurried to blurt, “-But vestal technically refers to the hearth so for all we know she’s a chimney sweeper-”

“Well I highly doubt you’ll find her by asking women about their sexual history, so perhaps we could move on to some of the more exact clues Agnes provided?” Anathema asked sharply. The sooner she could go back to being Anathema Device, the happy book-sorting witch of Jasmine cottage instead of Anathema Device, the descendant of Agnes Nutter, the better.

“Quite right, yes, apologies,” Aziraphale stuttered with the decency to look embarrassed. Crowley just rolled his eyes as if he was vaguely exasperated with existence itself, which was probably very accurate.

“I think ‘basin of black hill’ is particularly relevant,” Anathema said. “It’s a geographic indicator.” She stood up and went over to retrieve her laptop. As she went through the process of booting it up and logging in with her user credentials, the pair on her couch resumed their bickering.

“The question is, is Nutter simply referring to a hill that is black, or is there a specific Black Hill?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not much of a good clue if it’s just at the base of _any_ black hill. With igneous rocks and all there’s probably thousands of black hills,” Crowley said.

“Well, unfortunately, dear boy, they’re the ‘nice and accurate’ prophecies, not the ‘helpfully specific’ prophecies,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Well then what’s the bloody point?”

“The point is by deciphering them they can help us pursue the foretold path-”

“'Foretold path’ sounds a bit ‘divine plan-y’” Crowley snipped.

“Arguably-” Aziraphale began.

“Black Hills National Park,” Anathema announced loudly, shutting up the supernatural duo from their bickering. “In South Dakota. And… The _Cordillera Negra_ in the Andes – Peru.”

“Ugh, why couldn’t the black hill be in _England_ or at least _Europe_ ,” Crowley grumbled.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with traveling,” Aziraphale protested. “I haven’t left England in the last fifteen years or so. A change in scenery for a short while would be nice.”

“But _America_ , angel! America!” Crowley exclaimed.

“I thought you were fond of America, all those bankers and movie stars, easy to tempt, you claimed,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, it’s all easy,” Crowley waved him off. “It’s just if I had to choose a vacation spot, it wouldn’t be America.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, this isn’t a vacation,” Aziraphale said. “We’re looking for the Mother of Christ.”

“We’Re loOKng foR tHe MoTHeR oF ChrISt,” Crowley parroted in a very strange voice. Aziraphale pursed his lips and glared at him with a considerably terse and somewhat offended stare. It was a quite intimidating stare, Anathema would have been surprised for a moment knowing the angel if this wasn’t the first time, she had seen a little bit of righteous fury behind his eyes. Crowley met – or at least tried to meet – Aziraphale’s glare. Eventually, he let out a laden, groaning sigh, “I am _not_ flying economy.”[5]

“Business class is fine,” Aziraphale agreed. “Of course, getting good tickets on a flight so soon… I might need a day or two to get some things in order before we depart. We don’t know how long we’ll need to be in the Americas.”

“Didn’t the prophecy say we’d find her in a week? So, we just grab her and go,” Crowley shrugged.

“We cannot kidnap the Mother of Christ!”

“Why not?” Crowley asked. “We’re supposed to keep her safe, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but she could have reasons to stay wherever she is! She could have a family, a life! We can hardly uproot all of that,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Well, the prophecy does say that you ‘move her out of township old,’” Anathema said, partly dreading adding fuel to the flames of their argument and partially interested in helping them decode Agnes’ words.

“Yes, but that could be an eventuality!” Aziraphale said quickly as Crowley opened his mouth to say something smug. “The point is we need to have _contingencies_ and be prepared! Don’t forget, Crowley, you once _lost_ the _Antichrist_!”

“ _We_ lost the Antichrist!”

“The Antichrist was lost!”

“Well, it turned out alright, didn’t it? Can’t you just have faith in The Almighty’s Ineffable Plan or something that it’ll all turn out peaches and cream?” Crowley asked with a sprinkle[6] of sarcasm. “If I go too long without scolding the plants, they get it in their stems that they can slack off.” Anathema wondered for a moment how demonic and human gardening differed fundamentally.

“I never said things wouldn’t be alright, I merely find it prudent to remind you we don’t know how long we’ll be in the Americas – they’re quite large if you recall. And the Mother of Christ isn’t just a vessel, she is a human person who is undergoing a quite miraculous life event, one that hasn’t happened for over two millennia. We have to treat all this delicately, which could also mean we’ll have to be patient.”

“If I could say something,” Anathema piped up, “You should probably be more concerned about the fact that Agnes predicts that Heaven, Hell, and some third group of people will attempt to prevent the second coming and that its from _them_ that you’re trying to protect the Mother and likely humanity by extension.”

The angel and the demon both turned away from each other and their friendly quarrel to gape at Anathema. Their shock slowly morphed into horror as the actual magnanimity of Agnes’ words sunk into the pair of them. Aziraphale’s response of shock and awe was for his eyebrows to flare up, his eyes to widen, his jaw to lower observably, and his entire countenance and demeanor to become stiffer and far less friendly. Crowley, meanwhile, reacted by suddenly becoming restless. His face was twitching between several emotions – brow scrunching and flying and dancing quite like a butterfly escaping certain death. His mouth was likewise moving into curls and twists as if there was a bitter taste in his mouth he was trying to move around. His hands started to close and open reflexively, and his one planted foot began to tremble, his pointed knee clad in black denim bouncing up and down like a hyper child who had just eaten a shop worth of sweets.

“How did you determine that?” Aziraphale asked, and Anathema prepared herself for a very long explanation.

* * *

[1] If Anathema had bothered to look at the pages of the manuscript, she would have found them blank. Agnes had always been aware that Anathema was best suited carving her own path in life, and that Jolene Davis would be more than happy to receive the oddities of her prophecies and dedicate her undeserved knowing to understanding precisely what Agnes needed to let all of fate and destiny unfurl as it really ought to.[return to text]

[2] Whenever Anathema booted up her laptop and plugged it into the television, so the children weren’t clustered around its small screen, Newton stood pointedly on the opposite end of the room, giving strained advice to remind his dear love which part of the cable went where. The two of them were a bit of a disaster together, to be honest, but they were hopelessly in love, and so it was worth it.[return to text]

[3] Or rather, she decided to keep her tongue busy elsewhere doing other things that did not include bickering with her boyfriend.[return to text]

[4] Being an angel, of course, everything that Aziraphale did was, in some way, naturally bright, graceful, iridescent, ethereal, and generally wholesome.[return to text]

[5] The demon’s insistence on avoiding economy at any cost wasn’t solely because he preferred luxury and comfort whenever possible. He also had been partly responsible for the invention of airplane food and the constant downsizing of economy class to more effectively store as many passengers as possible. He wanted to avoid his own manipulations whenever possible.[return to text]

[6] Arguably, actually, it was more a heap.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who has been reading so far. As always, I appreciate all forms of feedback in many ways.


	4. It's Not The Waking, It's The Rising (I Could Cry Power)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome's strange symptoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone for reading.  
>  \- I changed the summary just because I kept feeling unsatisfied with it. I might change it again, and your feedback is appreciated.  
>  \- This is another chapter mostly in Rome's P.O.V., so I'm glad that some of you seem to like her.  
>  \- The entire premise of this fic has political and social commentary, and this chapter does so heavily. Further information and sociopolitical activism in the endnotes.

WHEN ROME LOWELL first woke up after being slammed into by a minivan at the intersection, she was in the back of an ambulance. Everything was too much, too overwhelming, and too all-consuming. There were two people at the end of the ambulance with her – EMTs – and they were checking on her shouting back and forth about how strange her vitals were and other garbled things that Rome’s mind didn’t comprehend. There was a swaying and a lurching as the ambulance was speeding toward the hospital. Rome felt like she was tumbling and falling through the abyss, strapped to a plastic board as she plunged into eternity in the back of an ambulance. The screeching of the sirens was a constant drill boring into Rome’s head, each chirp another pulse of agony into the very center of her consciousness. Rome was in pain, that was the only fact of which she was sure. She was in pain, and her body was moving of its own accord trying to stop it.

“She’s having a seizure!”

Rome wondered absently if that was the cause of whatever she felt. Every single one of her cells was boiling, that’s how it felt. She was standing on the sun as it broke into a miraculous supernova, that’s how it felt. The pain was white, and like white light contained every shade of the rainbow, that torture somehow consisted of every other misery known to man. She wanted to gag, scream, cry, and cackle all at once, needing some sort of relief as the pain kept edging her. She was flooding and breaking with something, something so massive and overwhelming she knew it didn’t belong in her simple human form, and yet she was surviving it as it concentrated inside of her. Somehow, perhaps through the sheer force of her indomitable will, she only writhed and jolted as she understood infinity. She felt hands on her, and suddenly the hands were no longer on her, forcibly wrenched away from her, dull thuds from bodies hitting walls and sinking to the ground. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she was literally on fire, or if the swirling plasma and stardust of nebulas were pouring from her every orifice. She felt as scalding, tumultuous, and magnificent as the pillars of creation. There was burning deep inside her, an emptiness at her very root which was suddenly being filled. Waves of bliss, in every shade and shape of all the joy that has and would ever be felt, suddenly crashed over her as the agony ended, and her body felt like it was thrumming with molten gold and silver, coursing through her just as slow and hot as she imagined it would be. She collapsed back on the plastic board, not even aware she had been arched with her chest exalting to the heavens and her back bowed until the muscles were weeping silently from the strain. Her mind was heavy, suddenly fuller than it should be. She never felt more exhausted than she did at that moment.

“Thank God.”

“What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know. Some sort of seizure or neuro event. Check her.”

“Everything’s fine. Her vitals are back to normal – no injures.”

“Oh, good. So, just the broken arm?”

“Are you sure her arm was broken?”

“Of course! Her bone was sticking out of her arm!”

“Well, it isn’t anymore.”

“I – what?”

“Look!”

“What the fuck?”

“It’s okay,” Rome heard herself saying, reaching out to the two paramedics and holding one in each hand, her clammy palms holding onto their skin. “Y’all just need to forget about that. I’m not injured anymore, so you don’t need to worry.” Something warm fluttered in her chest, and she could feel something at her very core like the whole planet was orbiting in her intestines. Then, she blacked out again.

* * *

AS ROME STARTED to wake up, she heard whispering. Soft, muted whispers like they were coming from another room or an old radio. It was these whispers that lead her back to her consciousness. She regained it gradually, the whispers getting louder, so many voices it became a droning buzz until finally her eyes snapped open and she was heaving, trying to sit up and gain consciousness of her surroundings.

“There, there,” A soft voice said, touching her shoulder and easing her backward into the bed. She blinked up, dumbly at the face of the doctor above her. He was saying things to her. He was telling her his name, his voice low and soothing, he was telling her she was in the hospital. Then he said something else – he repeated it, his voice lilting, it was an inquiry. She blinked up at him stupidly and tried to shake herself, the whispers in the background fading until they were indistinguishable from the ambient white noise of the hospital.

“I beg your pardon, could you repeat that, sir?” She asked, her thick drawl made the Doctor blink at her in surprise for a moment.

“Do you remember what happened?” he asked.

“Car accident, I think?” she asked. “Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine. No major injuries for either party,” the doctor assured her. “You were knocked out in the crash, but you didn’t get any head trauma.”

“Well that’s good,” Rome rubbed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, Lord, I’m in the hospital, aren’t I?”

“You are,” The doctor said.

“I need to go.” She said, trying to sit up.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, trying to ease her back.

“You said I’m fine, and now I’m awake, so let me get out of here! If I have to sign some stupid whatchamacallit saying I’m leaving against medical advice, give me a damned clipboard!”

“At least let call someone in the meantime, you’re in no state to leave by yourself, and your car was totaled,” the doctor urged her. “An emergency contact-”

“I don’t have one,” Rome said, her voice as biting and bitter as she felt in that moment. Her car was totaled? Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I can get a rideshare service.” She barely had five hundred dollars on her card, and that was supposed to go to bills and rent in a few days.

“Ma’am-”

“I don’t have health insurance and every cotton-picking minute[1] I’m here is one when your hospital is going to charge me with inane prices like fifty dollars a second for medical consultation and a thousand dollars an hour for sitting in this crappy-ass fucking bed!” Rome exclaimed, kicking her way out of bed. The anxiety that had been wound tight in her from this entire ordeal burst. Her feet landed on the ground, bare on the cold tile. “I’m a part-time waitress getting less than the minimum because they expect I’ll get a decent tip and I never do!”

“If you contact the medical billing staff-”

“Oh, believe me, darling, I am _well_ aware that I will be dedicating at least ten hours of my life to waiting on hold for your medical billing staff, listening to music bland as drywall while I become yet another victim of a broken system dedicated to lining the pockets of the already inordinately wealthy!” Rome spat. “I’m getting the fuck out of here unless you can give me a proper reason not to, I thank you kindly!”

Half an hour later, Rome climbed into a rideshare car in the parking lot of the hospital and gave the driver the address to her apartment. She stumbled from the door when she climbed out to her front door, pulling her keys out of the plastic bag provided by the police and stumbling into her apartment, dropping onto the couch and letting out a feral shriek, which woke up every one of her neighbors that was still asleep at four twenty-three in the morning on a Tuesday, which was to say, most of them. Her scream turned into a sob. She hugged her knees and pressed her face into the seam between them, her jeans warming up from her rasping sobs and tears.

“Come on, Rome,” she assured herself, a pep-talk in a trembling voice her only link to reality and sanity. “Think on the bright side, because there always is one. You’re not dead – alright that one’s debatable. You’re not terribly injured. You can still go to class and work; your life ain’t entirely uprooted. Tucson has public transportation and rideshare services, so you can survive without your car. You’ll get an insurance payout eventually, that’s a few thousand dollars, probably. You can graduate in a few weeks, and you have interviews lined up for jobs that give your more than six bucks an hour plus tips, so whatever payment plan you’ll have to work out with the hospital is doable. You’ve survived worse, Rosemarie Lowell, and you’ll survive this too.” She sighed. “Still sucks like a leech, but that’s life, you know it.”

As Rome was left alone with her thoughts, not eager to sleep, so she busied herself with getting ready for another day of class and eating a large bowl of cereal to compensate for the fact she skipped dinner to get rammed in the middle of an intersection. She texted her boss about what happened and asked if she could pull some extra shifts this week. He ordered her to take the day off, but in all honesty, Rome wanted the complete opposite. She had three weeks until finals and four weeks until graduation. As long as she could keep up with a tight study schedule and spend a few restless nights with a full pot of coffee and some efficient typing, she could pull this graduation thing off. She wasn’t close to failing any of her classes, so it was just a matter of doing well enough she passed. Once she had her degree, nobody would care if she got less than a perfect grade on her thesis on “God and the Problem of Evil.” Of course, part of her wanted to joke that after speaking to God Herself, she really should pull an A from the association.

Wait.

It was at that moment that Rome remembered she met God. Or rather, remember was too strong of a word. She knew that she had met God. She knew that she and God had spoken. Everything she had learned in that conversation: God had a sense of humor, God loved her, she loved God, and she had agreed to help God and humanity by extension.

But had she really?

Yes. She knew in absolute what had happened, even if every forced recollection of what had happened just brought her back to some sort of a dizzy, fuzzy blur. Someone had poured a bucket of white-out on her mind and smeared it over her conversation with the Creator. Like she was no longer capable of fathoming what had happened, but at the same time, Rome was confident that she understood. She knew what had happened, but she had no recollection of it. It was as if one woke up with a horrible hangover, the entire night one black abyss, but the knowledge that they had taken a joy ride in a bedazzled Hyundai Elantra, stolen a lawn flamingo from a gated neighborhood, gave it a makeover with items found at a Circle K, taken the new and improved tropical bird to Denny’s, and fell asleep with it in a plate of buttermilk pancakes was somehow ever-present.

Rosemarie “Rome” Lowell had met the Almighty and had been given some God-ordained mission to save humanity, and she was currently recovering from a proper tantrum after leaving the hospital after surviving a car accident. It was day one with whatever the fuck she was supposed to be doing, and so far, she had been doing very little. But really, what had She expected of Rome? When you ask an impoverished philosophy student who works part-time at a diner to save humanity, you have to assume she’s going to be slow on the uptake.

The corollary of Rome’s recollection was that she remembered what had happened in the ambulance as well. That part she _could_ remember, and that was the indescribable and unexplainable. She surmised perhaps the two existed in tandem. There was a period when she knew what happened and didn’t remember it, and a period when she remembered what happened and didn’t understand it. Perhaps, this was her mind trying to divide or compartmentalize her spiritual experience, as if the two coagulated and she both remembered and realized what had occurred in complete clarity, her brain would explode, perhaps even literally. So, Rome decided that she was not going to attempt to rectify the divisions in her mind, and while she was mostly satisfied with what had happened from a logical perspective,[2] Rome still had some lingering questions about what she felt in the back of that ambulance, and a still sort of weight that stayed with her, although where she was carrying it she couldn’t say.

Rome went on with the rest of her day, taking the city bus from her apartment to the campus. She went to class, she printed and turned in her essay, she kept her head down, and Rome did what she needed to do to get through the day. Rome had her work clothes in her bag, so she worked on her homework with a massive cold brew coffee from the on-campus coffee shop in a quiet corner of the library. When she went over her thesis, which she had spent months researching, she realized that she now wanted to completely overhaul her conclusions and argument models, to some extent. That meant she was digging through the philosophy and religious studies sections of the library, pulling out books to back up her research and scribbling the strangest notes on loose sheets of paper. She didn’t realize she had gone on some insane research binge and had been in the library for nearly six hours until the librarians came though and told her it was time to pack up so they could leave. She went home and continued. There was some sort of roaring bonfire in Rome’s chest now, some interest that wasn’t there. Perhaps the reality was her initial arguments were all made from the point of objective disinterest, and now she felt, not enlightened, but informed and opinionated. A philosophical analysis that used to be just weighing the fallacies of all the major arguments to conclude inconclusively became impassioned, and Rome found herself writing theory with little to no textual basis beyond general inspirations from other writings on the thought, her own arguments and philosophical conclusions started cropping up and a whirlwind of highlighted passages and scribbled, scratchy notes took up the better part of her night.

She didn’t remember when she fell asleep, but that’s when the whispering returned. This time, she couldn’t chase it to consciousness, it seemed to be pulling her deeper and deeper into some unfathomable abyss. She was fighting her way through a pool of black tar, the sounds coming from somewhere at the bottom but every languid kick and push through the viscous liquid only seemed to move her the most infinitesimal amount. The whispering was getting louder, gradually, like a slow crescendo, until suddenly it was blaring, blasting, hammering her at all ends. She felt a swoop of vertigo, like the high drop of a rollercoaster, like the wind being knocked from her lungs, and suddenly she was standing in a dark concrete building. Rome looked around, the voices were overlapping cacophony, coming from everywhere around her. She looked around and realized precisely what was making those noises. There were chain-link fences in the center of the room, forming corrals. In these corrals on the floor, there was a sea of shiny silver lumps, which Rome realized with a horrible start when she finally saw a flash of brown skin, were people. Not a hundred miles from where Rome’s body was sleeping, there was an immigration detention center. The horror only compounded from there, as she realized the cacophony, she heard in her head wasn’t actually sound. The bodies were motionless, still, trembling in the cold air, trying to rest while seated on the floor, pressed back to back and side to side, a hundred people in a space that was evidently meant for thirty. There was no rattle in the ground, no thrum in the concrete, no reverb in the air. The voices she heard were _thoughts_. But they were more than thinking. She zeroed in on one of the bodies closest to her, a woman who couldn’t be older than Rome and was probably younger. She was pregnant, too. She was bundled in the corner, the silver plastic blanket protecting her stomach more than the rest of her. As Rome zeroed in on this one woman in a sea of hundreds, a lone voice rose from the din, soft and broken. It wasn’t in English, but Rome understood it nonetheless. It wasn’t just a thought, it was a prayer, repeating over and over again in a broken loop.

“ _Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Seńor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre: Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén.”[3]_

Rome backed out of this woman and her voice faded among all the rest. Every single person she focused on, in some way, was praying. Praying to Mary, to God, to Jesus, to Saints, and to Angels. They were praying for their children to be safe, wherever they were. They were praying to be safe. They were praying for the Americans to be kind. Every prayer and song of sorrow filled Rome with the same despair and desperation as the person experiencing it, and as she kept listening, the distress only grew. It burned, and it throbbed, and it made her want to rip her heart out of her own chest. She was drowning in prayers, she was drowning in last rites and silent confessions and begging for a shred of mercy. Rome wanted to scream, she wanted to lash out, she wanted to _do something_. She tried to make it stop. Rome fell to her knees, grabbing her ears, head between her hands, hoping desperately to block out all the voices, all the prayers, all the horror. She opened her mouth and let out a shriek, but as her throat burned, there was no sound but the needs of others.

She woke up with a start, all the prayers nothing more than a whisper in the back of her mind, a white noise she could ignore. She had fallen asleep on her couch, laptop asleep as well on the coffee table, books, and pages spread out around her. She checked the time, it was three in the morning. She groaned and dropped her head back onto the lumpy cushions. She still felt an ache in her chest and a throb in her head, she continued feeling the cold concrete and the biting metal cages full of refugees praying for mercy. She could taste something sharp and metallic, like blood, in her mouth. Had she bitten her tongue? The more she thought about what had happened, the more those sorrowful prayers overwhelmed her once again. Just the memory of their despair was enough to make her burst into tears. It was more than a dream, Rome knew that, somehow. It had seemed like a dream, but it had to have been more than a dream. Dreams were never that real, never that horrible, even the nightmares of her father with fire in his eyes and a lash dripping blood didn’t send Rome over the edge with a sadness that wasn’t hers.

* * *

THE DREAMS CONTINUED as the weeks went on. It was rare for Rome to sleep for more than five hours at a time, and if she slept for too long, the dreams always came. They weren’t always in the detention centers at the border, although that seemed to be the closest spot of mass horror. She knew too much about those camps. She knew about the guards who shouted at the women and called them whores, who stormed in while they were showering under icy hose spray and did unspeakable things, who hit dissenters with the butts of their guns, who left toddlers and babies wailing in soiled clothes for children barely ten to try to soothe. Sometimes she went further. Sometimes she ended up on battlefields where broken bodies lay in the wake of bombs and drones and machine-gun spray. Other times she was watching a river overflow and drown everything in its path, farmland, and food destroyed, natural disasters a weekly occurrence. She watched dark-skinned children with skeleton-thin arms and bloated bellies sob and wail while a harrowed doctor tried to do something but never had enough supplies. She wanted to help, so desperately. She wanted to offer a helping hand, to reach out, to assure, to give a sliver of hope. Someone was listening, she was listening, and they were not alone. Nobody was ever genuinely alone because she was everywhere. But those horrible dreams were slowly driving Rome insane as she was stuck as an observer. To rectify this, and also get ahead on work, bills, and school, Rome changed her entire sleeping schedule to a miserable pattern of naps that were about two hours or so at a time. She pulled double shifts regularly, trying to save up enough money for her first medical bill payment in a few weeks, but she was also behind on bills and rent, and public transportation wasn’t comprehensive, so rideshares were putting a dent in her budget. To compensate, she ate cheap macaroni and cheese and packed food that was sent back to the kitchen for some dumb mistake in Tupperware containers, so she had something to eat, the chefs were kind enough to cover for her, so the owner was unaware of her pilfering. The food would have been thrown away, anyway.

She was always tired, even if she was getting six or seven hours of sleep every twenty-four hours. Her sleep was never entirely restful, also if she didn’t stand somewhere and watch the horror unfold, there was always the whispering when she closed her eyes. There was fatigue from her constant work and stress that set deep in her bones, her eyes were continually burning to close, and her muscles were always aching from how she never stopped moving. She was fighting a headache at most hours of the day, popping Tylenol like skittles and usually accompanied by a cold plastic cup of coffee. Sometimes she was dizzy without reason, that swooping feeling in her stomach whenever she was sleeping just filling her with existential dread while she was awake. She kept pushing herself not to falter, to keep up on her work, on her school, on her life. Somehow, her thesis advisor read the garbled mess of the rough draft of her religious philosophy presentation and said it was promising as long as she worked on strengthening some aspects of her argument and making the whole thing a bit more coherent for the oral presentation. Editing, really, her ideas were fine. Everything was fine, except the fact that nothing was fine, and while her demeanor of fine was as if it was a pure and natural state, she was continually battling and fighting for fine, and holding onto fine with a vice grip, afraid of what she would become if she let go.

After two weeks of this, Rome felt like the stress was breaking her. For some reason, for the last two days, she didn’t want to eat. She was hungry, her stomach was always rumbling, and yet whenever she got close to the thought of food, she felt sweat break out on the back of her neck and vertigo spin her around like a broken merry-go-round constantly screeching a discordant G-flat. When she did eat – simple things like dry toast, oatmeal, crackers, and bananas – her stomach rolled like a rowboat on the high seas in the middle of a hurricane. Rome was starting to get agitated and terrified. Not only were her new God-given powers of hearing the suffering of the world slowly driving her around the bend, but she had a much more human, common, everyday terror she had to be confronted with: she missed her period.

She had _thought_ she was having a period, at first, because she bled for two days about a week after the car accident. But those were light days, and she had never bled lightly for as short as two days. Either her uterus gradually ripped itself to shreds for a week, or it blitzed it in three days, and pure offal poured out of her vagina. Combine that with her nausea, the food aversion, the headaches, the fatigue, and Rome felt an itching suspicion at the back of her neck that there was a horrible chance she could be pregnant. According to _What to Expect When You’re Expecting:_ Everything, besides the agonized pleas of mercy from the tortured souls of Earth, was textbook. Then, on Thursday, she woke up from an early morning nap and promptly sprinted to the toilet, throwing up. Her empty stomach only spewed pale yellow-green bile into the basin, and as she waited for the next wave of nausea to hit and make her hurl again, she was slightly entranced by the swirls of white foam and pale green filmy chunks in the toilet which she couldn’t explain. The stupor ended swiftly as she heaved again, hot acid burning the back of her throat and setting her chest aflame. She groaned, but her nausea abated, and she collapsed on the edge of the tub, teetering on the meat of her thighs.

She couldn’t be pregnant. She’s never done the thing that made people pregnant. Penises? One had never been in the vicinity of inside of her in her entire life. But then again, she had got hit by a car, met God, told God she was totally down to help Her, and developed some strange sense of suffering-awareness of all the people praying for help and mercy in the world. So, arguably, pregnancy without a penis was possible. In fact, there was a precedent for it when it came to God.

“Seriously?” She asked, rubbing her eyes and her mouth and padding over to the sink to wash out the bitter taste with stale water. “Seriously?” She asked again, flushing the toilet and watching her bile swirl into the drainage system. “Seriously?!” She asked again, leaving the bathroom and flopping on her bed, looking at the grey-yellow stucco ceiling that was supposed to be white. “SERIOUSLY?” She shouted. “SERIOUSLY?!”

Seriously.

“I can’t take care of a baby,” She said. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I can barely take care of myself. I’m trying to survive!” She rubbed fiercely at her eyes. “Pain: that’s a responsibility I can accept. Suffering: that’s right and dandy, lay it on me. Maybe I’ll put it to good use. But creating a life? Let alone a life that’s – if I’m right, and I feel that I am – a life that is the second coming of Christ, of God on Earth, the Savior. You entrust that to me?!” Rome flew out of bed and stumbled in fervor, collapsing on her knees in the middle of the room. “I’m not perfect! I’ll never be perfect! I don’t deserve to be the Mother of God! I’m just a human, I’m not even one of the best of them.” She slumped down, looking at the ground. “I don’t have an immaculate heart, I’m not worthy. All I have an imperfect heart and enough spite not to die.”

But Rome was wrong. She didn’t remember her conversation with the Almighty, not that it would have assured her, but she didn’t need to, to realize she was wrong. She would recognize, one day. Rome didn’t believe in herself, because she had only ever been reminded of her inferiorities her whole life. When she felt indifference, she was able to pretend that all that self-loathing didn’t exist. But she wasn’t indifferent anymore, and that came with consequences, which included an inferiority complex so large it could have taken up a sizable portion of the Pacific Ocean. Now, what Rome was wrong about wasn’t what one expected. Arguably, she was right in many ways. Rome would never be perfect, she was not immaculate, she was a human, after all. She had an imperfect heart, and she certainly had spite. But none of this meant she was undeserving of carrying what God had entrusted in her. It would just take a while longer and a proper inauguration into her role for her to understand, or rather, accept where she was in the grand scheme of everything.

“I’m not mad at you,” Rome said finally, her voice was soft and raw, broken and bear, “I’m scared. I don’t think I can do what you want me to. I want to help, but if I can’t do it if I fail, what will that mean for the world? It’s so much, I feel like I’m being destroyed. I can’t imagine how you’ve survived.” She gazed up at the ceiling, tears streaking down her cheeks. She gazed up, knowing as much as she knew anything that no answer would come from the heavens. She felt a rod of determination spike through her spine and through the base of her skull, she felt gunmetal in her bones, twisting and moving until she was steel and bone beneath her skin. She climbed up from her knees. “I’ll do my best, hopefully you know I can’t do more than that.” She set a hand below her navel, finally feeling where the weight of the world rested. “But, God, forgive me if I fail.”

* * *

[1] Surprisingly to the assumption of the term, a cotton-picking minute is not the same duration as a regular minute. A cotton-picking minute refers to how long it takes to fill one basket of cotton while picking it. Therefore, cotton-picking minutes vary, but the average duration is about ninety-two seconds.[return to text]

[2] Or, as satisfied as a human could be when confronted with the inexplicable, infinite, and incandescent. It wasn’t proper satisfaction, it wasn’t the satisfaction of discarding high heels and wire bras at the end of a long day, but it was a sort of quieter satisfaction. That satisfaction that she wasn’t horribly and irrevocably bamboozled.[return to text]

[3] Hail Mary, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've volunteered with some local refugee programs in the United States helping provide donated supplies, medical services, and transportation to those escaping violence in Central America. Doing so was my inspiration for some of this chapter. There are other ways to help, such as the websites below:  
> Lawyersforgoodgoverment.com  
> fairfightbondfund.org  
> lgbtqfund.org  
> communitybondproject.org  
> immigrantfamilies.org  
> freedomforimmigrants.org
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! As always, I appreciate your feedback in its many forms! The next chapter will be the start of Crowley and Aziraphale's little Odyssey, and I had a lot of fun writing it, so I hope to post it soon! Thank you again!


	5. Let There Be Hotels and Planes and Grievances Raised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale go to America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you so much for your continued support and readership.  
>  \- I loved writing this chapter.  
>  \- It also glitched out many times while I was trying to code it.  
>  \- I have spent a lot of time in airports, so I certainly had things to complain about in this chapter.

IT DID SEEM a bit redundant, when being a supernatural entity with wings, to use human capsules of flight for a transcontinental trip. After all, the presence of wings would arguably negate the need to subject oneself to a pressurized container full of a good hundred people hurtling through the sky at several hundred miles per hour. Unfortunately for Aziraphale and Crowley, Angels (and by extension, Demons) had to subscribe to Euclidean geometry while on Earth, and therefore, could not travel as quickly with their wings as the plane mentioned above and its large, blazing propulsion engines managed to go. Time was of the essence, and they weren’t aware if they were still being monitored by their respective sides. For those reasons and those reasons alone, Crowley and Aziraphale were standing in line for bag check-in at Heathrow Airport.

“Why do you have so many _bags_ , angel?” Crowley complained as the third leather trunk was being weighed at the weigh station where they received their boarding passes. He had one single black, sleek case as his carry-on and nothing else.

“Well, I’m not like you, Crowley,” Aziraphale explained. “I can’t just wear whatever I want when I decide I want to wear it.”

“And so, you need _three_ bags of clothes? You’ve only ever worn the same five things since the nineteenth century!” Crowley argued, clearly frustrated. “You know there will be laundromats and dry cleaners in America.”

“Well, the first one had clothes,” Aziraphale said. “I had to pack some things that might be relevant for research, and of course, entertainment.”

“You have _two_ trunks full of books?!” Crowley exclaimed. “You know there are books in America, too, right? I mean, I know it seems pretty dire over there, but they still _exist_.”

“But these are from my private collection!” Aziraphale demurred.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” The tired flight agent spoke, the smile painted on her face was as fake as the cherry red lipstick framing it. “You’re more than welcome to have your lovers’ spat elsewhere, but you’re holding up the line.”

“Wh- Wel- I- We- We’re not- er-” Crowley suddenly started stuttering and tripping over his own words, his mouth steadily gabbing in various sounds of protest.

“Your boarding passes,” she said, handing them to Aziraphale.

“Thank you,” He smiled at her brightly and gracefully, his cheeks turning into cherubic apples with the pure friendliness of his countenance. Crowley was still making discordant expressions and mouth sounds in protest of the earlier statement. “Come now, my dear boy.” He said to Crowley, stiffly carrying his carry-on bag, a leather tote,[1] at his side. Crowley followed him with a dramatic long-legged saunter, swinging his bag around his hips like he was hoping to bat away any approaching mobs of small children with black snakeskin to the face. The flight agent smiled smugly after them and then turned to her next customer.

Crowley wished he had invented airplane security checks, or rather he wished he claimed that he did. Really, that would have been worthy of a commendation down in Hell, back when he really worked for those things. Nasty, horrible, dreadful things airplane security checks were. One was demanded to stand in a queue for a ridiculously long amount of time, a maze of those plastic posts and their fabric barriers with weird splotched stains corralling the general masses through what had to be some demonic sigil because the line never happened procedurally in a way that made logical sense by any mathematical means. If the queues went at a snail’s pace, then it was a productive day. The winding cavalcade of people was always packed to the brim with some of the most annoying human varieties to exist: Important Business Man Yelling About Important Things on Important Phone, Young Child Screaming About Useless Thing, Self-Assured Middle Aged Woman With Ugly Haircut Complaining About Everything And Everyone, The Stinky Boys, and of course, who could forget A Young And In Love Couple Disgusting Every Person In The General Vicinity With Their Displays of Affection So Public They Might As Well Sell Them As Pornography And Make A Quick Buck. As the queue slowly made their way to the front, generations passed, legacies ended, and some never made it to the promised land, their corpses were processed into jet fuel. An eternity later, when they reached the front, they were shuffled into lines to put all their things in plastic bins so their stuff could be scanned and confirmed as not-weapons. Which, honestly, most of the confirmed not-weapons could be used as a weapon under the right circumstances with just a touch of imagination and a dash of desperation. One stood before a plastic bin - scuffed with centuries of use - and put their things inside. Jewelry, belts, wallets, occult talismans, keys, coins, Sumerian tablets, and shoes. You know, all the usual stuff.

After the queue and the bins were the big scanner machines. They used to just be metal detectors, detecting bits of metal, because most dangerous human things were made of metal, and therefore any scanned metal belonged in a bin. However, humans had adapted to their own metal detecting machines and started discovering other ways to have dangerous non-metal things, and that was when the big scanning machines came into play. The way the contraption worked was that one stood on a marked spot and put their hands in the air, surrendering themselves to the machine. Then, the device went chk-chk-chk-chk, revolving around the person on the spot like a circling vulture and scanned everything that they ever tried to hide. Once that was done, a squinty security agent squinted squintily at the image and decreed whether or not the person who had just survived the scanning machine had to be patted and touched in all the regions that the scanning machine didn’t manage to scan. It was a grave oversight that the scanning machine couldn’t infallibly scan everything, but in all supposition, if the scanning machine was perfect, what would the touchy security guards to? They’d probably have to find other elaborate security rituals to do their touchy things, and that prospect was vaguely unappealing. And once the items were not weapons, the body was scanned, and the unscanned parts were touched, the person was allowed to retrieve their things, put back on their shoes, belt and jewelry, and stumble blindly through the maze of the airport, looking for the terminal of their flight which always seemed to be in a completely different star system.

Aziraphale, being a lovely angel and a bit of a sanctimonious bastard, managed to go through the entire thing-scan-touch process without a single hiccough. Not so much as a sneeze or sniffle, in fact. It was Crowley, the demon, who had the universe rooting for him to trip and fall on his face as if he had not already Fallen.

“You need to remove your glasses, sir,” The flying security agent said.

“Nah, I need to wear them, I have a bit of an eye thing,” Crowley said, trying to shake them off his metaphorical tail. Sometimes, Crowley had a literal tail, but his serpent of Eden form would probably be a grander disruption in the process of everything. “I have a piece of paper if you want, to prove it,” he said, reaching into a pocket of his blazer and showing the agent the piece of folded paper. It was promptly unfolded.

“This is just a piece of paper that says, ‘Anthony J. Crowley needs to wear sunglasses for an eye condition,’” The agent responded, looking up at Crowley with severe judgment. Another horribly dreadful thing about airport security checkpoints, not a single granule of humor in the whole place.

“Well, it’s true!”

“Take off your glasses, sir, or we’ll detain you,” The guard threatened. Crowley was a bit agitated by the whole ordeal but tried very hard not to let it show.[2] So, he put on a brave face and a bitter smile.

“Fine, but I warned you,” Crowley said, slipping his glasses from his face, folding them neatly, and putting them in the bin. He looked at the security agent who backed away in a bit of fright and shock, seeing a pair of aureate irises with slit, like an abyss slicing through a molten vat of gold. The agent looked at him strangely, realizing that he did indeed have an _eye_ thing. “It’s genetic,” Crowley said, and he went on with the rest of the inane process, letting himself get scanned and touched before he hurriedly put his things back on, glasses first.

He then regrouped with Aziraphale, and the pair used the boarding passes to guide them through the empty, static, but continuously moving airport to where they were supposed to sit and wait for their plane to board, a business lounge with worn leather armchairs and men in suits and ties. They settled as comfortably as they could, Crowley at Aziraphale’s left, and they watched the large plasma sign that said their plane would be boarding in fifteen minutes. Aziraphale spent those fifteen minutes and then the other twenty after them because airports were highly inefficient talking about _Principia Mathematica_ and some of the more controversial mathematic arguments and notation the book suggested and others that it had standardized. Crowley listened attentively, not necessarily fascinated by mathematic notation, but wrapped up in the steady drone of Aziraphale’s eager explications. Aziraphale was one of the most expressive speakers Crowley had ever met, everything about how he moved when he spoke in some way serviced the topic at hand. The way his eyes flashed, his hands worked, his brow quirked, his mouth moved, and the lines on his face crinkled was like a piece of motive artwork, some sort of visual accompaniment to what was already a quite riveting conversation. It was more than entertainment to watch Aziraphale speak, and at this moment, it was a distraction on top of everything.

Crowley had issues with this whole mission. He had fundamental problems with traveling across the globe because of a prophecy that might’ve been from Agnes Nutter. It wasn’t cynicism that drove him to be hesitant about this whole thing, if anything, Crowley was an optimist with how often things seemed to go his way.[3] Something had always been looking out for him, whether it be the Almighty and Her Vast Forgiveness, or Satan and His Enduring Rebellion, or just Crowley’s Sheer Dumb Luck, he had managed to avert the apocalypse, survive Hell’s judgment, and live in mild paranoia to continue to dine at the Ritz with Aziraphale.[4] No, Crowley’s issue was that he had more questions about everything that he had answers. Crowley liked asking questions, because he liked knowing, and at the moment, he knew very little. Surely, if the child of God was, well, coming, there would have been _news_? Crowley knew that he and Aziraphale weren’t exactly in the good books of their respective former Hosts, but that didn’t mean that they didn’t have an ear open in the channels. And the channels hadn’t been silent, dreadfully dull, yes, but nobody said anything about Christ returning. So, if Jolene Davis did have Agnes Nutter’s nutty prophecies[5] and Agnes Nutter was as right as Aziraphale assured she would be, why did nobody in Heaven or Hell know?

If he remembered the last time, which wasn’t a pleasant thing to do, Gabriel himself had come down from the heavens to tell the human Mary of Nazareth that she would be the chosen vessel. And Mary, an ever-faithful servant of God, agreed. She got knocked up by the Holy Spirit and popped Jesus of Nazareth out in a manger sometime later. The point was, however, that everyone in Heaven and Hell knew what was happening. That was their job, to understand the affairs of humans, sway them one way or the other, and exist in the always-still state of a Supernatural Cold War. And now, nobody but the few who had read Agnes Nutter’s prophecy knew what was happening. It was all a very human affair, which was what bothered Crowley. Very recently (nearly twelve years ago) there had been another reality-altering child of the great destiny that was to enter the scene, and everyone in Heaven and Hell knew what was happening up until the Satanic Nuns switched the wrong newborns. And even then, they were kept well-informed with what they thought was the Son of Satan. So, now, the fact that Heaven and Hell were completely unaware there was some woman in the Americas (either South Dakota or Peru, according to Nutter) pregnant with God’s child reincarnate, or God’s second child really bothered Crowley. It was like there was an every-ticking Nuclear Bomb of Holiness somewhere on Earth and nobody knew where.

Crowley’s second fundamental problem was that the return of Christ, the second coming, was supposed to result in the resolution of the war between Heaven and Hell. The humans were often incorrect about their assumptions of what would occur, the written word was really more like a vague interpretation of the Heavenly and Hellish schemes. The Armagedidn’t proved quite decisively how what was written as part of the Great Plan was really more of a suggested course of action and not the actual turn of events. Aziraphale took this incongruity and called the whole ordeal “ineffable.” While Crowley appreciated his sentiments and often considered the angel’s arguments, the demon’s preferred term for all of the Great Plan was “bollocks.” That didn’t discount the fact that the second coming was an act of God, promised to end the war. And Crowley knew that the war would end with a bloody battle that would consume all of creation, leaving only one side victorious for eternity. That was Known: You could not treatise Good and Evil. They were diametrically, fundamentally, and irreparably opposed. They had just gone to extreme extents, not a full year prior, to stop the resolution of the war, and while they were lucky that Adam was a human who rejected his written destiny and returned reality to a pre-apocalypse state, it seemed like God intended for the war to end sooner rather than later. Quite frankly, while Aziraphale was simply concerned with doing what Agnes said he would, Crowley was questioning what would come next.

A third, quieter, but no less shrewd part of Crowley’s mind made him wonder why Aziraphale hadn’t come to the determinations that Crowley had, how he hadn’t managed to realize the consequences of this whole ordeal. Clearly, Aziraphale wasn’t blind to how similar this was to the events of twelve years ago. Clearly, Aziraphale wasn’t unaware of what was said about the second coming. Aziraphale was brilliant, how had he not come to the same determinations that Crowley had, if they had the same information available? Part of Crowley thought perhaps Aziraphale was just happy to have some sort of service again. It had been nearly a year since they were all but exiled from their respective bureaucracies. Aziraphale had done a small miracle of goodwill here and there, just like Crowley had ruined a few people’s days out of pure boredom, but there was a lack of rigidity and assignment. Crowley loved the freedom to be selfish and indulgent, but maybe the angel felt differently and hadn’t said so. Perhaps this transition was harder on Aziraphale than on Crowley, and he was eager to serve something again, convincing himself that everything that Anathema interpreted from Agnes’ words, that the baby would be the savior of humanity and it was their duty to protect it, was absolutely right. He was an angel, after all, faith had ultimately remained in his arsenal after everything.

A smaller part of Crowley, a sliver of his mind, but on that was always screaming with its full might, made Crowley worry that perhaps Aziraphale was aware of this child’s significance in the war, and was more receptive of this child that Satan’s child because it gave his Host a better chance. Aziraphale never really said to Crowley, in the time leading to and after the apocalypse, that he was on “their” side, it had always been Crowley who argued their alliance. Aziraphale may have switched to save Crowley from Hell’s punishment, and he may have turned his back on Heaven, but what if it was all some long con? Aziraphale was a clever enough and savage enough bastard to pull something like that off. Crowley tried to assure himself he was just unreasonable and paranoid, but there was another question he hadn’t answered. If Aziraphale indeed left Heaven in his heart and soul, then why had he not Fallen? How did still have the Almighty’s Grace? It wasn’t that Crowley wanted Aziraphale to Fall, he would never wish that on his best friend, but he didn’t understand why it hadn’t happened. He had been chucked from Heaven for questions, bad taste in friends, and an unfortunate case of wrong-place-wrong-time. Surely, Aziraphale’s demonic alliance, thwarting the God-ordained apocalypse, giving away a flaming sword, lying about it, and defying heavenly order at nearly every turn should have landed him in equally burning sulfur? Was it all down to a matter that Aziraphale still had faith in the Almighty regardless of what happened and Crowley was prone to deciding the Creator wasn’t as eternally Good, forgiving, and merciful as She wanted people to believe?

These thoughts, these questions without available answers, haunted Crowley from the business class lounge to the plane to the skies. He barely paid attention to the safety presentation, as he didn’t need to float or to breathe so it wasn’t that big of a deal if the whole plane went down in a fiery explosion over the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe the corpses and terrified humans would put a dampener on things, but the thought wasn’t enough for Crowley to be pulled out of his most profound contemplations. Aziraphale retrieved a book from his bag and immediately started looking through the wine list and menu onboard business class, eager to see what Brussels Air could provide in the clouds. Crowley felt Less Good about the flight. It wasn’t just that he was mildly bothered by his ears popping with the changes in pressure and that the fake courtesy smiles of the airline staff made him feel like he was about to have his head chewed off by a woman in a powder blue skirt and tie, it was that he without Aziraphale to talk about something stupid at great lengths since they were separated by an, albeit measly, partition, Crowley was left alone with his thoughts. Those thoughts of everything that was bothering him quickly turned into a sort of thrumming, underlying anxiety. He wasn’t addressing each issue cognitively, but rather the most horrible highlights of his tirade of hesitations made their rounds, each flitting through his mind with a wave of panic and a slap in the face. He resulted to his typical way to dissuade anxiety, ordering alcohol, and watching mindless in-flight television until he passed out in his lie-flat seat.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, didn’t take action against Crowley’s behavior because indulging in alcohol, television, and sleep were not uncommon ways he spent his time. Aziraphale partook in the in-flight meal, one glass of wine, and a good book for the duration of the transatlantic journey from London to Denver. That was to say, Aziraphale wasn’t completely obtuse to Crowley’s emotional state. He recognized that beyond Crowley’s baseline dread, there was something else that had cropped up since the prophecies of Agnes Nutter and their new responsibilities. Aziraphale really didn’t know how to put it into words, but he knew something was bothering Crowley. The vast majority of Aziraphale came to the consensus that while he would be willing to help Crowley with whatever the demon needed, he wasn’t going to push his friend to confess whatever was bothering him, especially as Aziraphale knew Crowley was more than capable of asking for help when he needed it.

A smaller, quieter portion of Aziraphale that he was able to promptly squash whenever the concern annoyingly niggled its way into the back of his mind suggested that Crowley’s issue was with the mission precisely. Anathema’s translations of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies had made it all quite clear that the child of whose Mother they were destined to protect would save humanity and creation, and arguably, both he and Crowley would agree that was worthy of their time, they had averted the apocalypse because they loved humanity and Earth and didn’t want to see it destroyed. But, Aziraphale also was aware that the writing had suggested the second coming would be when the child of God would destroy sin and Satan. And Aziraphale also knew that even after Crowley was exiled by Hell, the demon continued to exert his wiles and schemes occasionally. Perhaps it was just part of his nature, and his concerns were that if everything went in accordance with the prophecies, Crowley would no longer be able to tempt humanity, or worse, those human assumptions of lakes of fire and unbreakable chains as the final punishment to the Host of Hell might have some merit, and Crowley feared for his eternal soul. Aziraphale was confident that wouldn’t happen, especially if Crowley were helping preserve humanity, clearly Christ-the-second would not lump him in with the demonic masses. The last had preached forgiveness, after all. But Crowley had little faith for the love of the Almighty, so perhaps he was worried about that. Aziraphale also supposed that would explain why Crowley hadn’t brought up his reservations, because he was worried that if he voiced his concerns for the fate of demons, Aziraphale might fear that he still had loyalties to Hell.

Aziraphale, of course, knew that Crowley had as much loyalty to Hell as he did to Heaven, which was none at all. Crowley was the one who made their own, new side, who was the first of them to join humanity, who wanted to avert the apocalypse the moment he heard it was coming. Aziraphale wished he could say, “It’s alright to be worried about the future, but I know, come what may, I’m not leaving you again. We’re on our side now, forget Heaven and Hell, we’re protecting and cherishing Humanity, and each other.” And more than anything he wished he could say, “You have nothing to fear.” But the issue was that while he knew theoretically what he could say to Crowley to perhaps assuage whatever questions the demon had from this new adventure of theirs, every time he considered opening his mouth, there was like an invisible hand clamped the words in his throat or stole them from his tongue. Aziraphale knew this hesitancy well, an old ghost of what he was supposed to do, his obligations and responsibilities of Heaven built into his very bones. His loyalties may have lied in humans, but it wasn’t a small feat, nor a quick one, to discard millennia of learning to bite your tongue. So, Aziraphale decided if Crowley voiced his concerns and proved he needed Aziraphale’s words, he would find a way to say them. Until then, he would read his book.

* * *

THE PLANE LANDED in Denver in the afternoon. Back in England, it would have been well into the evening. Luckily for angels and demons, they did not have such a rigid biological cycle as humans did, so adjusting to the change in time zones was simple enough. They had a layover in Denver before a smaller, secondary plane with cramped seating took them to the airport closest to Black Hills National Park. They retrieved Aziraphale’s luggage from the carousel and carried them, Crowley saying once they were out of the airport, he would ‘acquire a ride.’ Aziraphale was a bit overburdened by his three trunks and leather tote. After the angel dithered about carrying four bags and gave a soft, hopeful pout, Crowley found himself lugging half of the luggage out of the airport. They left the airport on foot and found a secluded car lot a short distance away. Crowley took his sleek black case from under his arm and set it down on the ground. With a snap of his fingers, the black case unfurled. Where the case once sat, there was now the Bentley.

“Ah! How clever!” Aziraphale exclaimed brightly, before realizing that he was doomed to Crowley, driving them across the Americas in his beloved car that often did things cars shouldn’t be able to do. Then again, Aziraphale remembered how much of his bookshop he brought with him and decided he wouldn’t complain too much out of hypocrisy. They loaded Aziraphale’s three cases, and tote in the trunk and Crowley climbed into the driver’s seat, lithely situating himself in the familiar position and running his hands reverently over the steering wheel. Aziraphale got into the car with more care, lowering himself inside, tucking his feet in before closing the door, and strapping in before Crowley had a chance to accelerate. “Do you know how to get to the Black Hills from here?”

“The phone does,” Crowley said, pulling his smartphone out of the pocket of his blazer and opening up the map app he had been practicing using for the last few days. He had been in England long enough he was able to navigate with the back of his mind, but he hadn’t been to America since the early-nineteenth century just before his very long nap. Luckily, humans and their slightly annoying but mostly useful inventions circumvented the traditional issues of navigation. Instead of looking at atlases and compasses, or asking for directions, he could just type some words into a box, and a little popup on the screen would tell him when and where to turn.

“Four hours?” Aziraphale peered at the screen. “Will it really take that long?” He had gotten a bit accustomed to how centrally located everything in London was. The vastness of this new continent certainly was a surprise.

“Bet I can get it down to three,” Crowley said, a wicked glint in his eye, matched by an equally foul grin.[6]

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. He gripped the inner walls as the cabin, jumping as the whole Bentley revved and jolted, shooting toward the highway. The Midwestern United States was brilliantly empty. The outside wasn’t much of a blur since it was identical flat grasslands and pale dove-grey roads as far as the eye could see. Even with the trucks and cars on the road, everything was empty, and Crowley was comfortably speeding at about a hundred and twenty miles per hour, the vehicle purring as if the high speeds were easy to sustain. However, the Bentley in question was particularly unique. It did whatever Crowley expected it to do, so it functioned on an empty tank, and could easily sustain itself at top speeds and even faster than the speedometer indicated with ease. Aziraphale supposed the velocities weren’t so terrible when the roads were mostly empty and straight, and there was no swerving and weaving to avoid pedestrians or the wildlife, not that he would _ever_ tell Crowley that under some circumstances, he didn’t hate going as fast as he let on. As they sped North, the grass turned from a dull green to a pale brown, not unlike Aziraphale’s beloved coat. It got to a point where there was nothing around for miles but empty spaces with short, pale brown grass and the occasionally taller, greener bush. Some patches were yellower or redder than the rest, but it was the pale blue sky and the sea of clouds that seemed far more interesting in this vast landscape. The only signs that humanity had ever touched this part of the world, beyond the roads and road markers, were the telephone poles that ran across the emptiness.

“What do you think?” Crowley asked.

“Sorry?” Aziraphale turned away from where he was gazing out the window to Crowley.

“Of ‘Wyoming?’” Crowley asked.

“Reminds me a bit of the early days,” Aziraphale mused. “Before humans spread out.”

“Well, they haven’t spread out here,” Crowley said. “Haven’t needed to, yet. Seven billion of them or so, and they still haven’t properly inhabited every corner of the world. Haven’t touched everything the land has to offer. Not to mention the oceans, they’ve barely _seen_ the oceans. And the stars, maybe one day they’ll see those up-close.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Aziraphale assured his friend with a kind smile. Crowley glanced at him with a frown.

“Sssshut up,” Crowley hissed, pushing the accelerator as if speeding slightly faster through the emptiness would put Aziraphale on edge and make him regret his compliment. Aziraphale humored Crowley by shifting uncomfortably, but really, driving this quickly was worse when there were things that could be hit out here. He idly wondered if Crowley was afraid of a speeding ticket, but for their entire adventure in the United States, every police officer would have a coughing fit and every piece of speed-measuring equipment would falter whenever the Bentley was within view.

Once they started heading eastward, the roads went from being straight through a pastel green and brown abyss to weaving through rolling hills of bright greens and vibrant yellows. The closer they were to the Black Hills, the greener the grass and the bluer the sky. Still, there were no cosmic or ethereal sensations that were starting to grow, as Aziraphale hoped he would feel in the presence of the Mother of Christ. Evergreen trees began dotting the landscape, as did small towns on the outskirts of the national park. Two and a half hours after they departed, Crowley slowed down for the first time that wasn’t out of necessity.

“Now what?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale took the envelope from his inner pocket and looked at the prophecies.

“We could try asking around,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, yes, excuse me, kind sir, do you mind telling us about a pregnant virgins’ whereabouts?” Crowley challenged, his voice coarse with sardonicism. “She’ll live around here and is carrying the second coming of Christ.”

“Yes, yes, I see your point,” Aziraphale sighed.

They continued to drive around the base of the Black Hills National Park, hoping that maybe like with the Antichrist in Tadfield, they would be able to sense the cosmic shift in the area. They circled the national park twice and cut through it several times for good measure. They spoke to locals and used phone books to look for people who might fit Agnes Nutter’s descriptions. Three days and nights of searching passed in one frustrating blur.

“She’s not here,” Crowley declared with finality. “We would know by now if she was. It’s been a week, angel.”

“Well, perhaps Agnes’ definition of a week isn’t seven days exactly,” Aziraphale said. “We’re supposed to find her.”

“Do you think she’s here?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Aziraphale sighed. “So, I suppose that means we’ll be heading to Peru?”

* * *

[1] About eighty years ago, the same leather carry-on tote had held a collection of books the angel used to try to catch and intervene with a Nazi spy ring. They had tricked him, but just before he was inconveniently discorporated, Crowley had arrived hop-skipping his way down the aisle and coming yet again at his dear friend’s rescue. In the end, the Nazis were dead, the two supernatural entities were safe, Crowley had managed to save the books and the tote that they were held in, and Aziraphale was left feeling conflicted, confused, and charmed.[return to text]

[2] Crowley’s glasses had always been a sort of protective barrier for the demon. It wasn’t just to keep humans from knowing that he wasn’t human, he could have easily used glamor or a bit of demonic magic to make himself look perfectly normal. But he knew one thing about his eyes, and that was that they were revealing, far too revealing. He didn’t like to be revealed, it made him feel exposed and vulnerable. So, his glasses to him were like clothes to most people.[return to text]

[3] This was a fact that he would never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever admit.[return to text]

[4] Occasionally, this happened at nine precisely (one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine). Crowley would pay the bill, and Aziraphale would taste the wine. Then, of course, they would drive back in style in his beloved saloon to Aziraphale’s, which was always fine. OOOOH, LOVE-[return to text]

[5] Oh, sure, she called them Nice and Accurate, but it would hardly be a good marketing scheme to call your book of prophecies “Myne Owane Dranken Bullshitte from Three Inne the Moarning.”[return to text]

[6] He could, in fact, get it down to two hours, seven minutes, and thirteen seconds when functioning at his best.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed it! Thank you again for reading and supporting. As always, I immensely appreciate any forms of feedback you wish to provide, including kudos, comments, bookmarks, or whatever flights your fancy.


	6. Roman Candle Of The Wild - She Found Me Just In Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meet their waitress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading. Small warning there is (1) homophobic slur in this chapter and some sexual harassment, but I don't think it's egregious — just a heads-up.

AFTER A DAY of driving from Black Hills National Park in South Dakota, Aziraphale requested Crowley stop just for a few hours. He wanted a chance to stretch his legs, enjoy the fresh air outside of the Bentley, and perhaps eat something quintessentially American. There was a twenty-four-hour retro-inspired diner off the highway on the road they had picked to take them from South Dakota to Peru. They were at the edges of a moderately sized American city in the Southwest, some more significant buildings in the center of this city, and a dark range serving as a background to the entire luminescent cityscape. One lone dark hill stood taller than the rest, an A constructed in white rocks at the peak. The diner that they had picked out was the picturesque American diner of doo-wop music, poodle skirts, and sharing a milkshake with two candy-striped straws. The floor was tiled with black and white, the windows were tall, and all glass, and also the metal fixtures of everything gleamed a nuclear-age chrome. The upholstery of the stools, chairs, and booths was a cherry red vinyl, shining shiny and slick in the fluorescent lights blaring overhead. Neon decorated not just the signs out front, but the bar also had fluorescent artwork hanging above it. The female staff was wearing matching red and white striped collared dresses; their waists cinched with white aprons. The hostess led them to a booth by a window and gave them menus, smiling brightly, her lipstick the same shade of red as the seats.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Aziraphale sighed, looking at the index cards with Agnes Nutter’s prophecies for the third time in a few days. “She clearly indicates seven days after we read the prophecy, we were supposed to find the Mother. Seven days was yesterday.”

“Did you account for time zones or whatever?” Crowley asked.

“I did, as a matter of fact, and if we account time zones, then we should have done it a day _earlier_ ,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Well, we can be in Peru in three days with the Bentley,” Crowley said.

“Is that accounting your horrendously reckless driving?” Aziraphale asked inquisitively.

“It is,” Crowley said, leaning back, sprawling against his bench the booth, and frowning at Aziraphale’s quip. “Within the week still counts as a week, right?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Do you want to try to fly?” Crowley asked. “There’s an airport near here.”

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head. “What if we’ve done it completely wrong like the last time?”

“Well, if the last time is a frame of reference, then it’ll all happen by accident,” Crowley said, shrugging.[1]

They were drawn from their conversation for a moment by a sharp, muffled voice behind the swinging doors connecting the diner to the kitchen. It was a man’s angry voice, _“Why are you still in there?”_

_“I’m sorry, sir.”_

_“You have tables waiting for you!”_

_“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Rough day.”_

“ _Get to work, or it will get a hell of a lot rougher!”_ The final statement sort of made a crescendo as the door opened and a waitress stepped out, looking a bit worse for wear. Her eyes were rimmed red like she had been crying, they had dark circles beneath them like she was short on sleep, and her dark hair which was supposed to be coiffed into some vintage hairstyle had strands falling in disarray. The woman glanced at their table, noticed they were staring at her, and straightened, walking over. As she walked, moving in a decisive line across the black and white checkerboarded tiles, all vulnerability and stress on her face disappeared and morphed into what looked like a genuinely kind and hospitable face. It was always amazing how humans learned to thoroughly train themselves to hide everything they felt out of, as it seemed for this woman, survival. She stopped at their table, smiling down at them with the sort of smile that made the angel and demon offer smiles of their own in turn. She had a white pin above her heart, four blocky letters spelling out her name.

“Good evening, folks,” The woman drawled. Now that she was here, closer, and not on the verge of tears, the pair realized she had a weighty accent. The sort of sultry and syrupy accent that reminded some of Scarlet O’Hara, beneath bright hospitality of her service job. She wasn’t wearing the thick eyeshadow and bright red lipstick of her colleagues, but she was a pretty and delicate-looking human. “Sorry about the delay.”

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear, we hadn’t even a chance to look at the menu, yet,” Aziraphale said, smiling at her brightly, trying to make her eyes soften to match her smile.

“Well, then I ought to introduce myself formally,” she said. “My name is Rome, and I’ll be serving you. Would you like me to make a round or two so you can look at the menu? Or maybe we just start with drinks?”

“Yes, let’s start with drinks,” Aziraphale nodded. “What do you have?”

“Back of the menu,” she said helpfully.

“Quite a lot of options – what do you recommend?”

“Well, I’m partial to sweet tea, though I’m sure it would be an offense to British folks like yourselves,” she smiled like it was a private joke between the pair of them. “The lemonade is fresh-squeezed, and I hear y’all make it wrong across the pond.”

“Oh, then I think I would like to try it,” Aziraphale said.

“Fantastic,” she beamed. She turned to Crowley, who was peering at her, hoping that his squinting was less suspicious behind the glasses. “And you?”

“Coffee,” Crowley coughed out as he cleared his throat.

“Black?” she asked with a raised brow and curled lips. He gave her a sharp nod. She smiled again like she was sharing some inside joke with him, “Thought so. Alright, I’ll be back in a jiffy, you both sit tight.” She turned around and went back through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

“Give me the prophecies,” Crowley suddenly snarled quietly. As he did so, he lunged across the table, grabbing wildly and the inner pocket of Aziraphale’s jacket.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, trying to bat the childish flailing away. “Oh,– _Behave_!” He ordered sharply, a touch of authority and the slightest whisper of a threat in his voice. Crowley leaped backward like he had been burned, suddenly pushing himself against the red vinyl booth like he was being sucked into it with vacuum force. His lips were parted somewhat, and Aziraphale didn’t have to see his eyes behind the dark glasses to know he was gaping at Aziraphale. For _why_ Crowley had suddenly started gaping at the angel as if he had taken his full ethereal form,[2] Aziraphale had no clue. In fact, Crowley didn’t even know why he had such a visceral response to Aziraphale’s order. If it had been anybody else, Crowley would have rejected his orders, he would have taunted them, he would have mocked them, he would have been a good demon and rebelled from an authority, especially angelic authority. But he was Crowley, and this was Aziraphale, so when he heard the order with that unyielding charge, he reacted differently. If Crowley really had to describe it, Aziraphale’s voice was like how it felt to stick a fork in an electrical socket. And then the sharp initial shock scrambled Crowley’s mind for a moment where he couldn’t tell his own foot from a mango. But it faded mercifully fast, Crowley decided not to question what had happened, and merely accepted the envelope of prophecies when Aziraphale carefully and politely passed them across the lacquered table surface. Crowley dug through them to 575, and his suspicions were confirmed.

“Our waitress is named Rome,” he said to Aziraphale, shoving the piece of paper in his companion’s face. Aziraphale’s eyes skimmed the prophecy’s contents and then suddenly widened comically to the point they could’ve easily popped out of his head like the character from a Saturday morning cartoon.[3]

“'An old empire burned,’” Aziraphale recited with a gasp. “You don’t think that _she_ -?”

“Well I don’t see any women named Khmer or Tondo around here,” Crowley said. “You figure out what you want to eat. I’ll question her when she comes back around, and you’re still deciding.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley scrupulously, as if gauging what the nature of that questioning. “I won’t be _mean_.” He assured with a bit of a rough hiss as if he was offended that Aziraphale would dare think perhaps Crowley’s line of questioning might be somewhat inappropriate. Aziraphale just pushed back against Crowley’s exclamation with a raised brow, as if he was reminding the demon of every time, he had ever been rude with one single look. It was surprisingly effective.

Three minutes after they ordered their drinks, Rome returned to their table, setting a clear glass with pale yellow lemonade and ice before Aziraphale and a mug of steaming coffee before Crowley. She asked them with a bright smile, “Are y’all ready to order, or do you need some more time to deliberate?”

“He’s almost done deciding,” Crowley said, glancing at Aziraphale who was still considering the menu. “I’ll just steal food off his plate. I have a question for you – your name, Rome, it’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

“I reckon it might be,” She said.

“Why did your parents name you it then, big Italy fans?”

“Oh, no, my Daddy would say too many Catholics,” Rome smiled, but it was the falsest smile she had given all night. “I call myself Rome. I like it better than the one I was given.”

“Was it something awful like Euphemia or Gertrude or Boudicca?” Crowley asked.

“Rosemarie,” Rome said. “I don’t hate it. As I said, I just prefer Rome. I hope that makes sense?” She gave him a sort of hopeful smile.

“Oh, yes, very sensical,” Crowley assured her. “Are you ready to order, angel?”

“I think I am,” Aziraphale said with a nod. “I think I would like to try your green chile cheeseburger with the um, _fries_.”

Rome jotted down his order on her pad of paper. “Will that be all?”

“Well, I was interested at your pies in the case over there, but that can be for later.”

“Cherry’s the best, in my humble opinion, but you take all the time you need to think about it,” Rome said as she collected the menus. She went back to swinging doors, disappearing in a flash of red and silver.

“It’s her,” Aziraphale said, a touch of shock and awe in his voice. “’Mary of Roses,’ Rosemarie.”

“Do you think she knows?” Crowley asked. “Has to know, doesn’t she? The Almighty wouldn’t knock her up and leave her unaware. Unless that is what happened. Probably not, well, maybe. Do you think an angel visited her?”

“Well, I know it was Gabriel who visited the Mother last time,” Aziraphale said. “He explained everything of relevance to Mary, including why she was selected and what exactly her responsibilities were. He was quite proud of the assignment, he spoke about it for a few centuries just to remind everyone how much faith The Almighty had in him.” Aziraphale seemed somewhat disapproving of his memory of Gabriel’s response to that assignment.

“Poor Mary,” Crowley said with a derisive snort, imagining with great amusement how that conversation might have gone.[4] “But you said that you hadn’t heard anything through your channels.”

“I haven’t,” Aziraphale agreed with a nod.

“Do you really think if Gabriel, or any Archangel, were assigned to explain all of this, there wouldn’t be a single whisper about it through the heavenly airwaves?” Crowley asked. “Hell knew about Christ the same time as Heaven did, and the same for the Antichrist. You said they aren’t silent, it’s just the usual whatever. So, if she does know, who told her?”

“Well,” Aziraphale glanced upward with significance.

“She’s not really acting like a woman who’s personally spoken to The Almighty recently, is she?” Crowley asked.

“What do you expect for her to act like?”

“You know, a bit holier-than-thou,” Crowley said with a shrug. Aziraphale frowned at him, “I mean, she’d be _right_ in acting that way, but she should still.”

“Well, if she’s a virtuous young woman, as the Mother of Christ should be, she’d be humble,” Aziraphale insisted.

The pair of them watched Rome as she made her rounds waiting on some of the other tables. There was a woman with twitching fingers, fishnets, bleached blonde hair, and an inability to make eye contact sitting at one of the tables. Her platform heels swung wildly as she fidgeted in the booth, and her makeup had clearly been smeared and fixed, but not re-applied. Rome spoke to her with a warm smile and a soothing voice, and the woman’s fidgeting ceased as she made her order or spoke to Rome. The third table that she was busying herself with was occupied by a large trucker taking a break for the night. His hat was sitting beside him on the table, revealing his balding head. He wore a sort of flannel shirt, and the sleeves had either been ripped off with deliberation or had ceased to exist in the presence of the man’s massive arms. Rome acted completely differently around him, no jokes and soft smiles. She wore the robotic smile of her service and stayed about an arm’s length away from the table whenever she spoke to the man, only getting closer to set something down. After fifteen minutes, she came out with Aziraphale’s food and set it down.

“Could I ask you another question?” Crowley asked Rome after she asked the pair of them if they needed anything else.

“Besides the one you just asked?” Rome inquired with a raised brow and a smile, “Go ahead, I like questions.”

“Have you met God?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale spluttered.

“God is an omnipresent and infinite entity, existing all at once in all of creation, ergo everyone’s met God,” Rome replied, utterly unfazed by the question as if Crowley had inquired something as insignificant as her favorite color.[5] “Will that be all?”

The angel and demon nodded and let her go back to her other duties.

“She seemed quite… certain,” Aziraphale muttered, suddenly glancing around like he was expecting to see the Almighty watching them. She was, of course, but not in an observable sense.

“Just eat your food,” Crowley insisted sharply. They went back to watching Rome as she popped in and out of the kitchen, making her rounds. Her performance was that of a well-rehearsed dancer, flitting between tables with hospitality and grace. She still stayed a ways away from the man sitting alone at the booth, her smile tighter with him than with anybody else. It took just overhearing one of their exchanges to understand why she was so uncomfortable around the man.

“So, honey,” He said as she refilled his coffee yet again. “When does your shift end?”

“Oh, not for some time,” she said, smile tight.

“Well, I’m a patient man,” He insisted.

“Good for you,” she said shortly.

“Maybe you could take a smoke break or something,” he suggested.

“I have asthma. Do you want the check?”

“Not yet,” he shook his head, and winking dramatically, leering at her as she turned around and walked away. She noticed Crowley watching her, and instead of doing what most people did when they caught Crowley watching and frowning (frowning back, averting eye contact, walking a different direction) she rolled her eyes dramatically and made a disgusted face, clearly indicating her thoughts of the man she was serving. She was quick to offer her camaraderie, perhaps it was an American thing. She made her way over to their booth. “Refill?” she asked Crowley, holding up the pot of black coffee. He nodded, and she refilled his cup. “So, what’s the verdict on pie?” she asked Aziraphale as she bussed his plate, which he had cleared completely.

“A small slice couldn’t hurt, could it?”

“Oh, sugar, a slice of pie could never hurt,” she assured him with a smile. She took his plate from the table.

“It could if you choke on it,” Crowley offered morbidly. “A slice of pie could be deadly.”

“Well that’s why we invented the Heimlich maneuver,” Rome said with a shrug.

“Anaphylactic shock.”

“Epinephrine,” Rome said. “Or intubation.”

“Still, the pie could hurt.”

“It’s not the pie that’s causing the hurt, then, it’s the human body. Either you didn’t chew right, or the immune system sees cherry pie and thinks it’s a foreign invader. And if the pie was poisoned, that’s the poison’s fault.” Rome said, smiling sweetly, with a bite of victory as Crowley conceded and reclined in the booth. She walked off and disappeared behind the swinging doors. “Be back directly!” she called as she left.

“Why are you contrary?” Aziraphale asked sharply, frowning. He was primmer and more proper in how he positioned himself in the booth than he had been a moment before. His expression was one of severe scrutiny like he was trying to deduce the answer to the question before Crowley provided it.

“I wasn’t!” Crowley protested. “That was just a conversation, angel.”

“I still don’t understand. If this is her, then we’re at the basin of a black hill,” Aziraphale said. “Now, there was a mountain range and a large hill I noticed when we drove up, but it was too dark to determine if the hill itself was actually black.”

“Oh, right, well, knowing Agnes Nutter ‘base of black hill’ probably meant being in the general vicinity of any slight mound that was black-adjacent,” Crowley said. “What matters is if you think this is her. Do you think this is her? You don’t feel any holiness or whatever?”

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed. He closed his eyes and sought out the cosmic perspective around them. The first thing he sensed was Crowley. What Aziraphale felt when he sensed Crowley was a sensation best explained as an amalgamation of the following human feelings: the scent of cinnamon and leather, the sonorous rumble of a cello, the pulsating and flickering heat of a bonfire, the smooth, waxy leaves of a serpent, the sensation of slithering through a meadow, and the taste of black licorice. He reached out past Crowley, feeling the air around them. It was bursting with the feeling of love. There was the love that existed in all God’s creation, an ever-present warmth, and grace. Then there was the love of humans, rippling around them and fluctuating with the course of their lives. Aziraphale reached out just a bit further and felt Rome, the Mother of Christ. She definitely felt like she had the essence of the Almighty in her. Creation's grace was concentrated within the waitress as though she was Earth walking around in a candy-striped dress. “It’s her,” Aziraphale said. “It really is her.”

“See? So, who really cares about bloody black hills?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale, clearly, based on his displeased expression, lips pursed, like he was still deliberating over a particularly vexing riddle. His appearance didn’t lighten until Rome returned with a plate of cherry pie.

“Here you go,” She said. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“Thank you, I think that I will,” Aziraphale replied.

“I have another question for you, Rome,” Crowley said.

“Hey, _sweetheart_!” The leering customer called. “I need a refill!”

“I’ll be over there in a hot minute,” She assured him with a false smile. She turned back to Crowley. “Well, what’s the question?”

“Is there a black hill around here?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, yeah, Sentinel Hill,” Rome said. “It’s why Tucson is called Tucson.”

“And why is that?” Aziraphale asked.

“I don’t remember the word exactly, but the Native Americans who used to live here called this place something that sounded to the settlers like Tucson. It meant ‘base of a black hill’ in their language,” Rome said. Aziraphale and Crowley shared a glance of unspoken significance. It seemed that Agnes Nutter was right on all counts, neither of them thought to account for regional indigenous languages.

“ _SWEETHEART_!” The customer a few tables away called, slamming his coffee cup down on the table a few times. “I need a refill! Stop chatting and do your job!” Aziraphale and Crowley both moved to speak.

“Please, don’t,” Rome said gently. They both sunk back in their seats with the slightest movement of her hand. “I’ve dealt with worse, believe me, I can handle myself.” She turned back on her smile of service and walked over to the booth, grabbing the pot of coffee from behind the diner counter on the way. “Sorry about the delay.” The man hummed lecherously in response as his eyes roamed her up and down as she stiffly poured coffee. “Is there anything else I could do for you?”

“Well, you could tell me when you get off your shift.”

Rome smiled sweetly, “Do you want the check, then?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” He leaned toward her. “Let me show you a good time.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Rome said. “If that’s all, I’ll be going.” She turned her back to move away. As she turned away, he slapped her ass. The first expression of her face was that of surprise, she stiffened and jolted. Then her face fell, for a moment she revealed all the frustration, anger, and humiliation she felt. She gritted her teeth and pushed forward with determination, and her head held high. It was very gracious of her, to not make a scene. But the anger that she felt was rolling off her in waves. She was like a calm sea before a storm, the slightest provocation and she would fly off the handle, and the angel and demon had the feeling her outburst would belong in the Old Testament.

“Come on, sweetheart!” he called after her. “Don’t go talking to those fags again! Not when I know you’re aching for it!” All the fire in her eyes suddenly went cold, extinguished in a sudden whoosh, and the forced peace on her face turned into determined resolution. She spun around.

“Apologize to them,” she ordered sharply.

“What?”

“Did you not hear me, you dumb fucking bastard?” she snapped. “You’ve gotten on my last nerve, not that I have very many these days. You’ve been rude to me all night, shame on you and shame on your mama and them for not teaching you to respect women. But you know what? I deal with ugly mugs like you thinking with their dick all livelong day because Lord knows they have no brain to use. No, what you’re gonna do is you’re gonna apologize to the folks over there for using that slur, you’re gonna hush up, you’re gonna pay your bill, and you’re gonna get the fuck out of here.”

“Are you threatening me?” the man asked, climbing out of the booth and to his full six-foot-something height, towering over Rome by an easy foot and a half.

“Apologize,” Rome repeated, not faltering for a moment at the sight of a large man towering before her. He leaned into her space and her face, and she held her ground, staring him down like she often came face-to-face with lions and bears.

“I will if you suck my dick,” he whispered. She glared at him with a bright spark of rage, and she opened her mouth. It looked like she was about to scream or retort, then her eyes widened in terrified shock. Quite suddenly, a fountain of yellow-green bile sprayed from her mouth and onto the man standing across from her. Crowley was reminded a bit of _The Exorcist_ and was quite amused. Aziraphale had never seen _The Exorcist_ but thought that a face full of vomit was well-deserved _._ The man screeched and stumbled backward into the table, his face and shirt now coated in vomit. He grabbed for the napkin receptacle and tried to wipe at his face.

“Suck on that,” She croaked, voice raw from bile, wiping her own spew on the back of her hand.

“What the hell is going on?” What seemed to be the owner of the establishment stormed out of the office. He saw Rome. “Rome?!” He roared.

“He groped me!” Rome exclaimed. “And he was tossing around slurs-”

“She _threw up_ on me!” The man moaned. “It’s in my mouth!”

“You came to work sick? You threw up on a customer?”

“He deserved it!”

“When you’re sick, you stay home!”

“You don’t pay me enough to be sick! You don’t even pay me fucking minimum wage, and you take thirty percent of my tips! I’m five dollars a week away from going onto food stamps! And I’m not sick, I’m _pregnant_ , so don’t worry, asshole, it ain’t contagious.”

“You’re fired!” He exclaimed.

Rome handed the coffee pot to her former employer and marched away, disappearing in the back room and emerging not a minute later with a coat and a backpack, flying out the front door and slamming it behind her. As she left the premises, the owner tried to field the damage, first with the man who had gotten well-deserved morning sickness all over him. He assured the man that everything he ordered tonight would be free to compensate for the damages and that there was no need to press charges over a hysterical pregnant woman having a tantrum. Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t stay to figure out how that conversation would be resolved, Crowley made enough money to cover their meal appear on the table, and the pair of them left.[6] They saw Rome walking away from the diner, toward the more central part of the city. She made it to the bus stop, looked at the schedule in the small covered sitting area, and collapsed on the bench. They watched as she kicked and hit the air, letting out a feral scream of rage. She rifled through her bag and pulled out a phone. The phone wasn’t turning on.

“No, no, no, no, no!” she cried. “You can’t be outta data! I’m not gonna walk five miles home in these goddamn heels at buttfuck in the morning when the busses ain’t running!” She kicked her shoes off and started pacing back in forth at the bus stop, chanting “Fuck!” over and over again, each time more distraught and grating than the last. She was undoubtedly quite unlike the previous Mother of Christ. Mary had been called immaculate for a good reason.

“We should help her,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley didn’t disagree, but he added, “If she throws up in the Bentley, that’s your miracle to clean it up.” Aziraphale nodded in agreement, and the pair of them got into the car. Crowley carefully pulled out of the lot and up to the bus stop where Rome was still having her mental breakdown of sorts. He rolled down the window. “Hey,” he called. She looked up. “Do you need a ride home?”

“Oh, no, I can walk,” Rome sniffed, wiping at the tear tracks staining her cheeks. “Thank you, though.”

“Really, it’s no bother,” Crowley insisted.

“I-” the poor girl looked conflicted and scared. She looked terrified, actually. “Can I take a picture of your license plate and text it to my roommate? Just in case you dump my body in the woods or something, it’ll be easier for the police.”

“We would never-” Aziraphale began in horror.

“She’s teasing, angel,” Crowley assured him. “Sure, take a picture.” He let the girl walk around the car, take a few flash photos, text something into her phone, and then get into the car. “Just do me a favor, don’t throw up again. It’s all original upholstery back there.”

“I’ll do my darndest,” she said, strapping in. She gave Crowley her address, and the car eased forward. He was driving without his usual disregard for speed limits and stop signs out of the desire for the back of his car to never be graced with the morning sickness of the Mother of Christ. “I’m sorry, I never really got your names.”

“I’m Crowley,” the demon said.

“Aziraphale,” the angel replied.

“It’s an honor to be of your acquaintance,” she said. “I’m sorry about that asshole. I should have clubbed him over the head with the coffee pot when he slapped my ass.”

“You were very noble,” Aziraphale assured her. “You needn’t take the words of a narrow-minded creature like that to heart. And it was incredibly kind of you to demand him to apologize for what he said.”

“Well, I know how much it hurts,” Rome said, vaguely admitting her own vulnerability with extreme discomfort. “So, what brought the two of you to Arizona?”

“Vacation,” Crowley said.

“Yes, vacation,” Aziraphale agreed. “We’re attempting that Great American Road Trip everyone speaks of so fondly.”

“Well, I hope y’all enjoy it,” she said.

“Do you have anything you’re looking forward to?” Aziraphale asked.

“Death,” Rome deadpanned. Aziraphale startled and looked at her in horror as Crowley snorted. “I’m not planning on it being anytime soon, don’t worry, but it’s definitely anticipated with relief. Uh, getting some rest tonight and a new job as soon as I can, in the short term. I don’t know how I’ll find something on such short notice, but I’m still a bit short on my monthly everything even with my savings.”

“How much is in your savings?” Aziraphale asked the concern and genuine worry in his voice drew the truth out of others.

“Not a lot,” Rome admitted, sounding scared for a moment before adding quickly with manufactured confidence, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll make do, I always do.”

“Anything happier?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’m graduating in two weeks,” Rome said, the joy in her voice was hesitant but not forced. “Finally finishing my master’s degree.”

“Oh, what in?”

“Philosophy,” Rome said.

“You must be good at reading then,” Aziraphale said.

“I get by,” Rome said, the humility was substantial in her voice. “I’m better at bullshitting. So, do you often do this? Chauffer damsels in distress?”

“The last one we only drove home because Crowley hit her,” Aziraphale tutted.

“She hit me!” Crowley exclaimed in half-hearted outrage. “Besides, no harm no foul, we have tea with Anathema in Tadfield now.”

“He’s usually a much more reckless driver, he’s just driving the posted speed limit now in hopes you won’t throw up in the back of his beloved Bentley,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah, it’s a miracle I haven’t gotten pulled over yet by one of your American police officers,” Crowley said, sounding quite pleased with himself. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Here we are,” Crowley said, pulling up before a squashy red brick apartment building with iron grating on every window and door. There was no grass or tree in sight, the décor just being concrete and asphalt and rust. “Make sure you don’t forget anything.”

“Thank you,” Rome said, collecting her things.

“Oh, a tip,” Aziraphale handed her a small roll of cash.

Rome held up her hands and refused the money, “I really shouldn’t accept-”

“Nonsense, your recommendations of lemonade and cherry pie were positively scrumptious,” Aziraphale insisted. Rome looked at it, and it seemed to just be about a dozen ones all rolled up together.[7]<

“Alright,” she said, taking it blindly. “Thank you both really. For the ride and the cash. Good luck on your adventure,” she exited the back of the Bentley. She smiled at them with a look that was a bit more than friendly. It was knowing and warm in its sagacity. She placed a hand on her lower stomach and waved at them with the other one as the car began to speed away, they barely made out her final exclamation, “And bless you both!”

The last time that Crowley had been blessed by someone with any authority on the matter, he had gotten sick. He had needed to hug a toilet for a few hours, broke out into a terrible fever, and then promptly slept for a week. Blessing a demon was quite like exposing someone with a very severe peanut allergy to the peanut gallery, it was quite unpleasant and wildly spoken of. However, whatever blessing he received from this Mother of Christ was far from his last experience. It was like someone was pouring something warm, sweet, and sparkling down his chest. It spread out through his core and under his skin, then entire sensation fizzy and strangely pleasant. He shuddered because somehow, part of it was achingly familiar. Aziraphale also felt a strange blessing. Usually, a human blessing was like shining a flashlight at high noon on a sunny day in the tropics. This, however, was something entirely different, pleasant, and lively, but certainly not holy. Incredibly strange indeed.

* * *

[1] Crowley’s flippant half-serious comments really should be taken seriously more often then they are. Out of either coincidence, his own intelligence, or a bit of a cosmic amusement, they were more accurate than even he anticipated.[return to text]

[2] In fact, Crowley’s expression made Aziraphale question for a moment if he had somehow transformed into a being of a hundred eyes and a dozen wings and a burning ring of fire, but a quick systems check told the angel he looked as human as anyone in the diner.[return to text]

[3] Crowley, of course, knew this because he had watched his fair share of morning cartoons. Looney Tunes was incredibly violent, irreverent, and corrupted the minds of children. The perfect show for a demon to fall asleep to.[return to text]

[4] It had been quite an exhausting conversation for Gabriel and Mary of Nazareth. The angel was vaguely disgusted with the entire concept and had no idea why the Almighty wanted to be so involved with human biology. Mary meanwhile, while a woman of great faith, had to admit the condescension was a bit unwelcome. When she later repeated the conversation to others interested in knowing what she was told, she made the angel a lot more direct and politer, not wanting to cast any illness on people’s opinion of the Archangel.[return to text]

[5] It happened to be purple, pale, and pastel-like lilacs.[return to text]

[6] The fact that the currency in question was _Zuzim_ was a genuine mistake in a hurried moment, except for all the reasons that it wasn’t.[return to text]

[7] It was, in fact, ten bills worth a hundred dollars each, wrapped up in one bill worth a dollar. When Rome did finally unroll the tip in the safety of her apartment, she cried for a solid hour.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again. As always, your feedback is appreciated.


	7. Be Detectives, Ride Around Picking Up Clues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's still Labor Day Weekend here and I have more free time than usual, I'm crunching out another update for y'all since I have the time.  
> Some notes:  
>  \- I wanted to include the Abstract for Rome's thesis somewhere in this chapter but couldn't so it's this:  
>  "The Problem Of Evil asks us how we can reconcile the existence of an omniscient, omnipotent, and omnibenevolent deity with the existence of both natural evils and general widespread suffering. The question of how good can create evil, how love can create hate, and how perfection can create what is imperfect is often asked both by theologians justifying their moral arguments of faith and atheists criticizing the very establishment of spiritual philosophy. In an attempt to rectify the argument through logical processional thought in place of scripture-based theological debates, it can be determined that a model for an objective moral system of Good and Evil exists through a model of obedience. Further, this argument deconstructs the nature of absolute morality and theodicy for a monotheistic argument deconstructing the assumed conceptions of an absolute universal creator."  
> \- I altered my footnote formatting, so now you click the numbers to go back and forth. No return-to-text to return to the text. I hope it'll work out for all of you. Let me know if you need me to recheck the programming.  
>  \- I don't think this technically ends on a cliffhanger, but it is the first chapter to sort of end with action and immediately be followed by a chapter starting with action. So... I hope you are intrigued.

ALTHOUGH ROME WAS pregnant with the supernatural Child of God, tortured by human suffering whenever she closed her eyes to sleep and overwhelmed with her thesis and finals, she managed to make it to her final week at the University of Arizona. She had two final exams, two final papers, and the oral defense of her completed thesis, and then she had her degree. When she was working a graveyard shift before her last week was when everything that had been accumulating over weeks of stress finally gave way, and she hurled the bile that had been building up in her empty stomach all over a lecherous, homophobic customer. Her tantrum and later outburst were strangely cathartic, and she didn’t have to worry about finances for the rest of the month thanks to an overly generous tip, so somehow even after she felt like she tripped, the fall wasn’t as bad as she expected. The strange things were what happened after.

On the day of Barfaggedon, Rome had been graced with a pair of customers who probably coined the term ‘odd couple.’ They were like black and white, night and day, and yet it was clear from just a few moments around them that they had been together for a very long time. The light one, Aziraphale, was perhaps the literal ray of sunshine. His smile was more than infectious, it had warmed Rome straight to her soul, his cheeks budding into cherubic apples as his teeth gleamed and sparkled. He was kind and gentle, speaking to Rome with soft warmth, asking her politely for beverage recommendations, and making her feel appreciated. He was a bit frumpy, wearing the sort of menswear that must have gone into vogue in the nineteenth century: a beige duster, a pale brown velvet waistcoat, brown wool pants, a pale blue button-up shirt, a tartan bowtie, and pointed, laced dress shoes. But his anachronisms seemed charming more than anything else, and he looked like the sort of soft and pliant person that gave the most phenomenal hugs. The dark one, Crowley, was the complete opposite aesthetically. While Aziraphale wore light neutrals and pastels, Crowley was decked head to toe in rich blacks. He looked quite stylish, actually, being thin and angular enough that he could look good in anything and dressing to prove it. His auburn hair was long at the top and coiffed upright, his dark glasses had to be designer and expensive, and his menswear wasn’t strictly masculine. For one, Rome was confident the incredibly tight skinny jeans he wore were women’s based on the diameter of the pockets. For another, beneath his impeccably tailored black blazer and waistcoat that clung to his narrow waist, he wore a black button-up shirt that was sheer with black lace florals, boldly showing a good portion of his chest even though it was buttoned up to his clavicle.[1] He was less emotive, a sort of indifferent swagger about him, but it definitely was a demeanor with intention. He wasn’t strictly kind like his partner, but he still treated Rome like a person, asking her questions and humoring her in a friendly debate, and speaking to her with care when she was at her lowest.

The two had driven her home and given her a ridiculously large tip after she threw up on another customer for referring to them with a homophobic slur. Before Rome recognized the extent of the tip, she had been idly wondering as she made her way back to her apartment if she could get some extra cash by posting a Craigslist advertisement to throw up on people in Tucson for money, as she had a knack for it. Then she remembered that not everyone who hired her morning sickness would be using it for petty reasons like payback on a horrible coworker, and promptly dictated whatever fetish some people might’ve had was not worth the money. When she did realize that the tip had been a thousand dollars in cash, she cried for a good while and then wondered why on God’s green Earth the men had given her so much money. Were they eccentric millionaires looking for a Sugar Niece? She wished, desperately, that they were just wealthy and genuinely decent people, but Rome was a survivor, and survivors often had to be vigilant. Instead of sleeping, because the dreams weren’t worth the rest yet, Rome went over their conversations in her head.

When they had asked her about her name, that wasn’t so unusual, most people who remembered that she had a name when she served them commented on hers. Then when she brought Aziraphale his food, Crowley had asked her if she ever met God. At the time she had thought little of it, fighting off morning sickness that seemed to not honor its name, and answering something honest before going to hide another round of ick in the bathroom. Now, she had to argue that it wasn’t a very usual question to ask. It was especially disconcerting when Rome was, in fact, pregnant because of God directly. Rome went from being vigilant to suspicious in a matter of moments. And after they had heard she was pregnant, they offered her a drive. Rome had assumed their generosity was because she had gotten fired and ordered that man to apologize on their behalf. Now, part of her wondered if it was with the hope of figuring out where she lived so they could watch her. Maybe they had even planned on kidnapping her until the roommate line, and they decided to keep an eye on her was better than letting her wander off.

The good news was that Rome had, as a matter of fact, taken a picture of Crowley’s license plate, even if she didn’t have a roommate to text. Her laptop was soon open on the coffee table, and she had half a dozen websites open, some sketchier than others, looking at car registries in the United Kingdom to see if she could get any registration information about the car in question. The vehicle registered under that license was a 1933 Derby Bentley, manufactured and sold by a company called Thrupp and Maberly, which definitely was the car that Rome had been in. What was curious is that the initial purchase was the only transaction record she was able to find. Maybe in the near-ninety years since it was sold, all the purchases were made with cash and off-books, but the car was still registered under the name Anthony J. Crowley. So maybe it had been passed down the Crowley family since the initial purchase, and this Crowley was using his father or his grandfather’s old car? Rome was the sort of person who liked to know things that she didn’t know, and she was the sort of person who had spent so much of her life doing research, pursuing that information came as naturally as breathing. She found census records, real estate records, and a few judicial records of Anthony J. Crowley living in London since about the late 18th century. The name was always the same, the date of birth was consistently obscured, and he ever lived alone. Although the name “Anthony J.” didn’t appear consistently until about the 1920s, “Crowley” and “A. Crowley” in London was present and consistent in the capacity that Rome expected as far back as the 1580s. While most people would definitely chalk this up to just a family line, Rome couldn’t help but find it suspicious that in spite of all the financial and business documents she could find on public record, there wasn’t a single marriage, birth, or death record of any Crowley in London, ever. When she could see pictures of the documents, the plot thickened when the signatures and handwriting looked near identical to her untrained eye Also, her vehicle research came up with no tickets or accidents on record, which seemed ridiculous after she had been told that Crowley was a reckless driver. From all her research, Rome made three determinations:

  1. (Anthony J.) Crowley was an immortal being[2] with supernatural abilities.
  2. His companion, Aziraphale, likely was as well. After all, they treated each other as equals.[3]
  3. They were here specifically for Rome, and probably knew the significance of who she was.



Rome decided the best course of action would be to figure out what they wanted with her. And to do that, she decided it was time to go on yet another research binge.

* * *

JOLENE DAVIS LANDED hard on the blue padded mat, groaning and rolling back onto her feet. She rubbed at her shoulder and winced.

“Do you think you can repeat that?” The instructor asked. “Or do you need another demo?” Jolene had been paying for daily private self-defense lessons for the last few weeks. The more Agnes Nutter revealed to her about what was to come, the conflicts of the second coming, the consequences it would have, and everything in between, the more Jolene felt like just knowing what was to come would be of little use. She was used to knowing things she shouldn’t know, that wasn’t guaranteed to protect her, and she would have a lot more to preserve as time went on.

“Is it alright if I do it slower first?” she inquired. The instructor nodded, and she, with careful and deliberate movements, performed the same maneuver that had landed her on the ground in the first place. With a few adjustments in her form as she went slowly, she managed to have her teacher be the one who landed, falling with much more grace.

“Good again.”

For one hour, every day, for the last two weeks, Jolene had subjected herself to this grueling training. It wasn’t like she had never fought before. Jolene was on the wrestling team in high school and had even managed to make it to a championship before bigotry got in the way. Her father noticed both how much danger she was in and how badly she needed an outlet and involved her in the ways he could: his boxing gym and his garage. Jolene had been afraid at first her father’s push toward those traditionally masculine was him trying to keep her away from herself, but she soon learned that wasn’t the case. He wanted her to be able to be safe from those who would address their fear of violence, which was why he taught her boxing. He wanted her to not have to descend into more dangerous lines of work because employment was difficult, and if she worked at his garage, he could keep her safe. She was grateful to her father, and leaving was bittersweet, but he had given her everything he could, and she knew that her fortune had to lay elsewhere. It wasn’t until Agnes that she finally started to understand her role in the grand chaos of everything. And that role required her to be able to protect herself and others, which was why she was here.

Jolene was waiting for Agnes’ predictions to come true before she moved on to the next stage of her plan. She was aware, intimately, that the three Hosts that would seek to prevent the second coming were those of Heaven, Hell, and Humanity respectively. The Human Host was what was unique. Obviously, it wasn’t that all of humanity would attempt to prevent the return of their savior. In fact, the Human Host was a tiny and very stupid portion of humanity, but nonetheless would be one of wealth, resource, and unfathomable stupidity. This was clear from everything Agnes had been predicting to come whenever Jolene had the urge to pull a prophecy in the time since she contacted the bookseller:

> [1788] Ere thy Ertheley Mother sukumf to thine ruthe  
>  And her sakring be the toxsinne of her cometh to troth  
>  wheyrewith the ternkee shalt beggar for her Godley shryft  
>  And she shalt shrive onfe the gyltig becuman affeered.
> 
> [266] When Hosts of Heav’n and Hel hither to forfend Christ  
>  They meet on the morrow of the Mother’s sakredde skooling  
>  And act as skulists, neith know the handmaid’s plyte  
>  Allianf slite to seeke the science of the Saviour’s Mother  
>  Erstwhyl, Host of Human be hexscore mant-armf and magnifyd  
>  Quoth she be like Yunge Adam, quean of Morn’s Star  
>  And seeke to reave the Mother, and maketh her expiry  
>  Knightes of Templer Anew shalt not sley with sooth

Her research of the human host was going slowly. It sounded to her like there was some secret society militia that would misinterpret the Earthly Mother of God as some sort of servant of hell. They likely than would be a highly religious sect, calling themselves or functioning as a neo-Knights Templar. That led Jolene down a road of secret societies and freemasons, as well as religiously military orders in Malta and several Christian associations in the United States who claimed to be acting in the legacy of the original Templars, but none of it was strange enough for her. Every time she found research and information, there wasn’t the bright and sure realization she was used to when she decoded or determined segments of Nutter’s prophecies. When she had the answer, it was like the world was about to break out to dance in the streets, but her research hadn’t even turned up a steady beat to tap her foot too.

“Are you training for a fight or something?” The instructor asked as Jolene packed up.

“Or something,” Jolene agreed bluntly. “I just like being prepared.”

“Were you a girl scout?” The instructor joked.

“I wish,” Jolene said.[4]

She returned to the RV park she was living out of, for the time being, keeping her profile as low as possible while her research continued. She had to come to terms with the fact that maybe whatever organization she was looking for wasn’t something quickly found with online research. Before she scrapped everything or tried her hand at another prophecy, because it didn’t yet feel like it was time for either, Jolene wanted to try her hand at some of those niche online forums she had started putting feelers out. It had been a spiral into the far-right as she was looking for religious militia organizations in the United States, and she was pretending to fit the target demographic for the sort of group she was sure would make up the Human Host. She went back to the forums, wincing but not surprised at the type of bigoted or vitriolic asides they made cavalierly. She was scrolling through the replies to some of the posts, some of the responses to her replies, and her eye was caught by one in particular:

> _If you’re really serious about that, you should consider joining an Armageddon-prep group. A lot of them do actual combat & survival training._

Jolene felt her fingers twitch and itch in excitement, Armageddon preparation groups, now that was strange enough it was worth pursuing.

> _Do you have any links/advice so I can look for groups like that in my area?_

A few hours later, she had a myriad of links, undoubtedly more on the way, and even more leads to pursue. Her foot was finally tapping to an intangible beat.

* * *

AZIRAPHALE AND CROWLEY had been watching Rome for a few days now, and it was easier than either of them were expecting. Firstly, Rome always stood out in a crowd, wearing eclectic and painfully colorful short-sleeved and collared button-up shirts, their chromatic and abstract patterns had a way of drawing the eye. Secondly, Rome seemed to spend a lot of her time out of her apartment and at very public and heavily frequented locations: like coffee shops, grocery stores, and the library. She took the first bus in the morning and didn’t come back until the last bus at the end of the day. Thirdly, Rome was utterly obtuse to the world around her. She always fitted herself in a corner, her back to the world, and wore large noise-canceling headphones, always listening to music or merely blocking out general white noise. Rome sometimes glanced around her surroundings, but usually became so invested with whatever work she was doing, she could go hours flipping between books, websites, and whatever she was writing. The only times she left her nest, once she established a place to work, was when she went to the bathroom, which was quite frequent thanks to her condition. However, she was consistently a committed academic when in a public place, she considered safe, and that meant she was easy to keep an eye on.

“She’s certainly studious,” Aziraphale observed on their second day of spying on her once she was in the bathroom and most certainly out of earshot as if she was ever capable of realizing they were there. “I think her paper is on moral philosophy,” he had been paying attention to her book selection. He tutted, “She’s reading an awful lot of Nietzsche.”

“I like Nietzsche, he was funny,” Crowley said, saying it like an afterthought or an aside more than an actual contribution, but Aziraphale descended on that statement for something other than numbing observation.

“Of course, _you’d_ find nihilism funny,” Aziraphale replied. He sounded perfectly polite and pleasant but hidden behind his unaffected demeanor was something dry and sarcastic.

“’ God is dead, and we have killed Him?’ It's hilarious,” Crowley insisted.

“I’m pretty certain that his argument was more nuanced than that,” Aziraphale countered carefully.

“Oh, so you’ve read Nietzsche?” Aziraphale didn’t like how smug Crowley’s expression was. He was an academic and a bookseller, of course, he had read some of the most influential philosophy in the last few centuries. He had even _met_ Nietzsche.

“Yes, I’ve read Nietzsche,” Aziraphale said as if there was nothing of that fact worthy of note or interest. “I just can’t say I’m amused by his arguments.”

“That’s why you’re no fun,” Crowley decided before turning back to watching Rome’s empty seat as if he was worried someone would come up and steal her piles of notes. Crowley wondered how much she had to say on the subject of Nietzsche. “Have you ever thought about why?”

“Why I’m no fun?” Aziraphale asked, slightly exasperated with what he assumed was more of Crowley’s antics.

“No, that’s established,” Crowley quipped with ease. “I meant have you thought about why Heaven and Hell want to go after her and the child? Why we’re doing this in the first place besides a little message from Nutter?”

“Well, I can guess why Hell wouldn’t like mankind’s savior returning,” Aziraphale said. “Especially with all the rumors of what would happen when Christ returns, Satan’s defeat and all that.”

“As for Heaven, probably doesn’t want to be upstaged,” Crowley said. “All of the faithful humans ascending above angels? It’d crush Gabriel’s monstrous ego.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth like he wanted to argue and then he closed it, looking conflicted and guilty for a moment. He was, of course, conflicted and guilty. One part of him wanted to scold Crowley for suggesting that an angel like Gabriel was proud. It was the sort of immediate response to his statement that Aziraphale had been trained into, the old stereotypes and arguments ready on his tongue. The second part of him couldn’t help but agree with Crowley, although angels were creatures of virtue, it seemed like a great many of them were so confident of Heaven and self-assured it could be considered by others, perhaps, as pride. But would they really oppose the second coming of God’s Child on Earth to stay holier-than-thou? Aziraphale had faith in Her, but the rest of it, he wasn’t sure of anymore.

* * *

THE IMMORTALS HAD been following Rome for the last five days and keeping tabs on her. Rome was confident that they were underestimating her, and she was definitely making their lives easier, acting as obtuse as possible when she knew that they had eyes on her. She spent more time than she cared for in public, populated places because it was where they would feel comfortable blending in to watch her. They kept enough distance they could blend into the ambiance, but Rome had managed to pick up a few recordings of their conversation with her laptop. They must have sorely underestimated her or completely overestimated themselves, because they often sat within earshot of her, and while they didn’t talk about anything significant when she was around, even with her headphones on, she kept her microphone on and recording, and they often did talk about substantial things whenever she rushed off to pee. So, from that, Rome knew a few things. She knew that Crowley was a demon, and Aziraphale was an angel. Rome knew that they had known each other for a while. And she knew that Heaven and Hell wanted her and the thing she was carrying[5] dead. But she still had questions: why were an angel and a demon such good friends if they were acting on orders of their respective sides? If they were working for their respective teams, why hadn’t they killed her yet? If they were not working for their respective sides, what were their intentions with Rome?

She did not, at the moment, have time for answers. The oral defense of her thesis was bearing on her mind, somehow even more than the thought of supernatural assassins. Death was one thing, but the notion that a flaw in her analysis or defense of her philosophical and theological theories would mean she had to resort to another semester before earning her degree was too great to bear. So, she let her counterespionage stay productive, but she didn’t dwell on it, spending her waking moments reviewing her literature and the theories, going through the likely counterarguments and questions that her panel would bring up, and making sure that she had complete and immediate mastery of every angle they would use to pick apart her thesis. When the day in question came, Rome dressed in the most formal garments she owned. She had a dark, floral collared button-up that was conservative enough it seemed professional, and a single pair of heather grey slacks. When she took the bus to campus that morning, her stomach turning slightly from her breakfast,[6] her mind was still dancing between all the arguments she was prepared to make, defend, and justify. When the fear of failure gripped her like a vice, the only solace Rome found was the reminder that she had somehow managed to bullshit her way into the accelerated master’s program and onto the dean’s list, and she could probably bullshit her way through anything.

The moment that Rome stepped into the classroom to greet the panel for her thesis, the moment that she left so they could deliberate, and every moment between blurred together. Two hours of speaking went by in the blink of an eye, arguments were still fresh on her tongue, syllogisms and comparisons still swirling through her mind.[7] She was buzzing, realizing now that she was on the precipice of five years of hard work, and this was the accumulation. This moment and the conversation happening behind closed doors, just beside her. She wondered if she should say a prayer, but really, what good would it do? It was the decision of the panel when it came down to it, and their free will to make whatever determination they saw fit. A decision which was founded in Rome’s effort, and her choices over the last few years, and the last few weeks especially. For some, prayers made them feel better in the vast chasm of infinite choice, but where it really mattered, the die had already been cast by human hands. All that was left was waiting to see what would turn up.

The door opened after an agonizing fifteen minutes, “Rosemarie Lowell?” The head of her panel asked. She jumped to her feet, “Or, perhaps I should say, Rosemarie Lowell, Master of Philosophy?”

“Really?” she gasped, relief and glee cascading over her.

“Come inside, please,” the lead panelist said with a smile. She went back to meet the other two panelists and her advisor, all three of them smiling at her evident happiness.

“Congratulations,” the panel said, voices overlapping one another.

“Your defense was impressive,” Rome’s advisor informed her, “We all thought so. Not that I was particularly surprised. I’m glad, all things considered that you were able to pull it off.”

“All things considering?” Rome asked, wondering for a minute if somehow, she had let it slip, she was pregnant and being stalked by paranormal entities.

“Your car accident and financial problems,” her advisor reminded her. She nodded. Of course. “Your earlier drafts were well-analyzed but a little dry and predictable, I have to admit, I was surprised by the sudden changes to your thesis so close to the submission date, but they were definitely worth the effort. Comprehensive monotheistic theological arguments with rational determinations and deconstruction of traditional moral and ethical thought were not how I thought someone would address “The Problem of Evil.” Usually, it becomes an argument of the validity of the existence or perception of a deity or a theological hodgepodge of scripture. So, I was impressed, and your degree is well deserved, Miss Lowell. Do any of you have any questions or comments?”

“Have you ever been to a Philosophy conference?” the lead panelist asked Rome, thus answering her advisor’s question in turn.

“Just whatever was hosted here in Tucson,” Rome admitted.

“The Nineteenth Annual International Symposium of Philosophical Thought is accepting proposals until the end of May,” the lead panelist said. “I personally know some of the people on the proposal committee, and they’ve complained about the poor response to this year's topic: The arguments of monotheism. It’s apparently not very varied. I might’ve mentioned your thesis to them a few days ago while doing my initial review, and they might’ve said that if you submitted it to their committee as a proposal at the symposium, you could be accepted into the AISPT.”

“Are you serious?” Rome asked, suddenly feeling like every muscle in her body was made of steel, pulled tautly. She was both prepared to be let down cruelly, not believing she could manage to have a proposal accepted into a massive conference on her first attempt and made to be assured readily, wondering perhaps if all her hard work really did mean something.[8]

“I am serious,” The lead panelist said. “They’re looking for original presentations, and there could be money in it, which I know would definitely help you with finances and everything.”

Rome nodded dimly, “I might consider it.” She was considering it, quite thoroughly, in fact. She was imagining, flirting with the consideration that perhaps she could deserve a place in the world that was significant. Maybe she was worthy of being known and listened to. The fact that she had gone her whole life feeling that she did not belong wherever she worked to be, that she did not earn all the good that came, was still weighing on her. But a little bit of validation, a sliver of hope, and a bit of self-confidence were starting to make her reconsider her deeply held belief that she was nothing. After all, clearly, she wasn’t nothing in the eyes of God and Her Creation.

“You should,” One of the other panelists insisted. “It’ll be good for you, and for the University. Not that you should do it for the University.”

“I will consider it,” Rome repeated her response with more certainty.

The panel had a few more little praises to give before letting her go on her way. She left the building feeling light on her feet and in her heart. Then, she was quickly reminded of how her troubles were far from over, as she realized she was now being followed by Aziraphale and Crowley. No longer worried about being distracted from her thesis, she could devote her entire mental capacity to coming up with a plan to deal with her shadows. She knew a few things about them, namely that they weren’t immune. They had mentioned on one of her audio files the dangers of ‘discorportation’ after Crowley had choked on something. Whatever abilities they had, their human-looking forms were still vulnerable to human hazards, like asphyxiation. So that probably extended to bullets, and Rome had a gun.[9]

Rome celebrated her degree by taking herself out to dinner. If she had family she spoke to or friends that were really more than work or school acquaintances, she would have had a big celebratory dinner with them. But she hadn’t anyone to take with her to dinner except for her stalkers, so she might as well take them somewhere nice. There was an affordable family-owned and run Italian restaurant not so far away from her house that it wasn’t a pleasant walk. After making her usual routine through public transportation, she dropped a few things off at home, made sure she had enough money to buy herself dinner and walked a mile or so to the establishment. The only reason she hadn’t gotten a job there was because the family was large enough all the employees were cousins of each other, and Rome didn’t want to barge in on a family affair, even if she was employable.

The last time Rome had gone out to eat by herself was two years ago when she was accepted into the accelerated master’s degree program. She had gone to this very place, ordered wine at a restaurant for the first time in her life, and fell in love with tiramisu. She wanted to come back, but she never had the time or money to indulge enough. But this was a special occasion, and Rome was going to celebrate with a fifteen-dollar dish of pasta, a seven-dollar desert, and whatever coke[10] they had. She wished she could have cheap red wine with celebratory dinner, but alas, the little thing in her was a reason why she ought to just settle for coke. Usually, when she dined alone, Rome’s entertainment of choice was people-watching. But since people-watching would ward away the two following her, and she had a reputation of naivete and obtuseness to protect for just a few more hours, she requested to be set up in a corner with her back to the world, and people-listened instead. There was a family of five not far from her who were celebrating the middle child’s birthday, a couple going on their third date with the sexual tension being palpable, and Rome was quite sure that sitting on the opposite end of the restaurant, but still seated so that she was in their line of sight, were her observers.[11]

Rome celebrated. She enjoyed her dinner and dessert, only feeling the usual traces of her lonesomeness. She made small talk to her waitress, the two of them falling into a bit of a friendly conversation about Rome’s reason for celebration, and as the evening became late enough the bars around opened and university students were out on the town, Rome paid her check and paid attention to the roaming mobs and back alleys as she went in the direction of home.

* * *

[1] Rome also took notice of his snakeskin belt and boots, black, of course. Naturally, she observed the bolo tie that with a serpent wound at the clasp like Asclepius' rod and ruby-studded aiguillettes. She appreciated someone who was committed to an aesthetic, and Crowley’s was a snake.

[2] Rome was betting on a vampire, with his fashion sense.

[3] With her jobs in customer service over the years and general hobby for people-watching, Rome was adept at observing how people interacted, especially with each other, and find some meaning. Not only were Crowley and Aziraphale companions on equal footing, but they also had a transcendental bond. Rome had first assumed they were in a relationship and just preferred non-physical intimacy. Now she was questioning her determinations under the assumption of humanity, but still quite sure that the duo was close.

[4] Jolene had in fact been a member of the Boy Scouts of America, but that was only because the definition of “boy” as Jolene and the people around her understood it at the time was unfortunately narrow.

[5] Rome knew she was pregnant, but she was definitely having a bit of a hard time coming to terms with the personhood of what was inside her. She knew, logically, that it was an ever-growing cluster of cells and celestial power, and would one day become the Child of God, the Second Coming of Christ, the Lion, yadda, yadda. She also was in monstrous denial of the significance of those cells because she was still coming to terms with her responsibility and thinking of the child as a celestial parasite was somehow more comforting than thinking of a human baby.

[6] Because of the violent nature of morning sickness, Rome consistently only had tea, dry toast, and a banana for breakfast, as anything thicker would guarantee the need to run off to the bathroom. She didn’t think that would go over well while she was doing an oral defense.

[7] Her thesis was entitled “God's Great Plan: A Metanalysis Of Theological Philosophy And The Logical Establishment of A Moral System of Good and Evil” if that was any indication of the sort of arguments she was making.

[8] Hard work always means something, even if the reward of the hard work doesn’t feel comparable with the effort of the hard work. The action itself of determination, of putting in the effort, and of trying to earn something considered worthwhile never exists without meaning. The meaning of a genuine attempt is intrinsic, even if the consequence is not.

[9] Her gun was actually a non-lethal armament, which was why she didn’t need any registrations or permits to keep it in her bag. But the fact was, it didn’t look non-lethal from a safe distance.

[10] As she was from Mississippi, all carbonated beverages to Rome were “coke.” On the night in question, however, the coke she ended up ordering was, in fact, a Coca-Cola.

[11] She later confirmed her suspicions by carefully using her front-facing camera to take a few quiet pictures over her shoulder, and of course caught physical evidence of the angel and demon gazing fondly at one another, unaware of her observations. What saps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you so much for reading! As always, I appreciate your feedback immensely in whatever form you can, be it a comment, a kudos, a bookmark, subscribing so you know when I update, etc. Let me know if you're looking forward to anything in the future, or just, your general thoughts on the matter. I adore interacting with all of you!


	8. Her Fight and Fury is Fiery, but She Loves Like Sleep to the Freezing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale come clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sick, and I have a massive exam tomorrow, wish me luck, I suppose — just a few things to note in this chapter:  
> \- This chapter again has some political elements because I need a cathartic outlet for politics I dislike, and this is it.  
> \- Rome finally gets to talk to Crowley and Aziraphale about their bad espionage. I hope you enjoy those exchanges.  
> \- I don't like guns very much, but I adore hyperrealistic squirt guns, you will understand the significance of that later.  
> \- I attempted to do the same research that Rome does in this chapter, and it was easier than you think, not that I'm suggesting a call to action or anything...

To celebrate her academic triumphs, the Mother of Christ had taken herself out to dinner and eaten all alone in the back corner of a family-owned Italian restaurant. If their excursion observing her had proven anything, it was that she was alone. She knew people, but she wasn’t close to any of them. Her victory was celebrated in loneliness, probably the same way it had been achieved. Aziraphale, in all his infinite compassion, felt sympathy for the woman. She was clearly virtuous, albeit imperfect. Maybe she wasn’t like Mary, although Aziraphale really didn’t know Mary well enough to make that comparison, but she certainly was an excellent example of a human. Crowley wondered, out of curiosity more than anything, what it would take to tempt Rome into doing something less-good. It wasn’t like he wanted to do such a thing, but it certainly was a thought experiment he indulged in. Most humans had terrible thoughts, and it just took a bad day or a little enabling to turn those thoughts into actions. Rome _had_ thrown upon a man’s face, but that really was a moment that felt like justice, and it had clearly been an accident she took full responsibility for.

They had been talking about something that seemed irrelevant at the time when they noticed Rome was in the process of paying her bill and heading home. With a little miracle, they managed to leave with their bill paid not half a minute after Rome stepped out of the restaurant. They caught sight of her heading home and wandered after her, keeping an eye on her was both an act of observation to better understand her and to make sure she was safe. Rome slipped through crowds, carefully focused just on navigating her way home. She rounded a corner, not deviating from the path back to her depressing hovel of a home, so Crowley and Aziraphale were not concerned to lose sight of her for a few moments before they took the same turn. They were delayed slightly as they had to stop for a rather large crowd of eager students about to go drinking to pass, and then they went down the street Rome did, expecting fully to see her about fifty yards ahead of them. It was a bit of a cold shock, like being thrown into an ice bath, when the pair of them realized after rounding the corner that she was no longer in their sight, and they had no idea why. Had she taken a different route than the one to the restaurant? Had she been pulled into an alley? They shared a glance and stopped. They would've discerned what happened to Rome, but they were wrenched by their collars into the adjacent alley. They each had a hand fisted in their collar, with a vice grip. The hands bent them down and backward slightly, coming from a shorter assailant than either of them. They stumbled and tried to steady themselves as they were yanked back, both fumbling for purchase on the ground on the way to the alley. They were then tossed with a bit of force into the dark and narrow gap between two buildings, the stench of a dumpster assaulting their senses.

They whipped around to see who had grabbed them and steered them and were absolutely shocked to see Rome standing between them and the alley’s entrance to the main street. She had the same calm determination in her eyes that had let her stand toe-to-toe with a man twice her size without flinching, and now it was directed at them. They also saw, obscured slightly by the alley shadows, that she had a gun. What an American thing, really, to have a gun. It was tucked beside her body as she wielded it in such a way anyone who passed by the alley wouldn’t notice it, but she could definitely do some damage if she pulled the trigger. Crowley and Aziraphale looked to each other, hoping the other in some way had any bright idea, but both looked utterly baffled by this turn of events. Crowley’s eyes were as wide as saucers beneath his glasses and Aziraphale as of yet was not able to close his dropped jaw.

“Hello, fellas,” Rome said quietly. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I have questions, you have answers, and if I don’t like them, it’ll be quite painful for both of you. Am I clear?” They both nodded hurriedly. Maybe with a miracle they could rid the gun from her hand or turn the gunpowder to ash, but then what? How had she even known they were following her? And how did she manage to disappear and reappear behind them?[1]

“You’re a demon,” she said to Crowley. He nodded. “You’re an angel,” she said to Aziraphale. He also nodded. “You’ve been following me because I’m pregnant with God’s baby.” They both nodded. “Heaven and Hell want me dead for some reason.” They both nodded again. “Do you know the reason?” They both shook their heads. “Why not?”

“Well, uh…” Crowley began, but soon as he started to talk his mouth found itself tripping over consonants incoherently, “We-G-Ru-Do-”

“We don’t work for Heaven or Hell, not anymore,” Aziraphale finally spoke. Rome quirked an eyebrow as a silent order to continue. “See, not too long ago there was Armageddon. Or, there was almost Armageddon. The, er, antichrist who was supposed to cause Armageddon was a human boy, you see, and-”

“The point is,” Crowley supplied, finally finding his voice after Aziraphale’s rambling answer made him nervous that Rome might be trigger-happy. “We helped stop the apocalypse and fell out of favor with our former sides.”

“So why are you here, then?” Rome asked.

“There are prophecies,” Aziraphale said. “We have them if you want to see, given to us. They were written by a woman named Agnes Nutter, and they haven’t been wrong yet. That’s how we know you’re in danger. Or how we know you will be in danger.”

“And why do you care about me?” Rome asked. “In fact, why’d you stop the apocalypse in the first place?”

“We like Earth,” Crowley said.

“So, you’re saying the fate of Creation depends on my uterus?” Rome asked.

“Unfortunately,” Aziraphale agreed. “Did you not – were you not informed?”

“My questions, your answers,” Rome snapped. Aziraphale stiffened.

“Look, we promise you, we mean no harm,” Aziraphale assured her. “So, please, put the gun down, and we will answer any and all questions you may have.”

“Do you swear?” Rome inquired carefully.

“We swear,” Aziraphale said. Rome turned a scrutinizing eye to Crowley.

“We swear,” the demon said with a sigh.

Rome’s hard expression instantly morphed into one that was a little smug, but for the most part, amused. She let out a ringing laugh and dropped her arm with the gun. She pulled the trigger with the weapon pointed at the ground, and a spray of clear liquid shot out of the barrel. It was a realistic squirt gun. The shock that they had been again tricked by the young woman made her laugh harder. She put the plastic toy back in her bag and walked out of the alley without another word. Crowley and Aziraphale stared dumbly at the spot she once stood before realizing they should probably follow her. They caught up to her. She managed to walk quite quickly for as short as her legs were.

“You knew we were watching you,” Aziraphale stated.

“I did,” Rome said.

“How?” Crowley asked.

They were on either side of her, with enough view of her profile to catch a smile grace her face, but it wasn’t necessarily a reassuring smile. It was a cross between amusement and an animal baring its teeth, “Well, I reckon because the pair of you share a singular brain cell which you hike back and forth like a flaming tater.”[2]

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked, looking to Crowley as if he had any idea what Rome meant. He did not.

“Y’all are far from subtle. Really, you didn’t even bother to try disguising yourselves, and I have a bit of a feeling that if you even did, you’d stay color-coordinated and committed to your aesthetic,” Rome continued. “I do sorely hope you were just underestimating me instead of overestimating yourselves because then I do not have a lot of faith that this is gonna turn out saccharine.”

“You were spying on us?” Crowley asked.

“Wasn’t hard,” She said. “You were smart enough not to talk about sensitive things when I was in earshot, I’ll admit it, but apparently stupid enough to forget laptops have recording equipment. I loved your debate about Nietzsche.”

“Surely we would have noticed-” Aziraphale began, in a desperate attempt to call her bluff, not that she was bluffing.

Rome snorted in disbelief, “Really, y’all seemed pretty preoccupied noticing each other.” Her statement made both of them splutter from her insinuation. They were coming up to her apartment building.

“Why did you suspect us?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, as kind as your tip was, nobody gives a neurotic waitress a thousand-dollar tip.”

“You gave her _a thousand dollars_?” Crowley gaped.

“She was fired! And she’s pregnant!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“Oh, don’t think you’re exempt from the same bullshit, _Anthony J. Crowley_ ,” she quoted his legal name. “Your question about God was vaguely suspicious, but it only took about five hours on the internet and your license plate for me to realize you’re an immortal with the same signature who’s been living in London off-and-on since circa the 1800s. Really, if you wanted to be less suspicious, throw some death certificates and birth records into the mix. Business documents under the same name dating back two centuries and nothing else?” She tsked with disappointment. She reached the entrance to her apartment. “By the way, what’s the J stand for?”

“It’s Just a ‘J,’ He replied.

“Is it a J and nothing else, or is it ‘Just-a-J?’” She inquired. He blinked at her for a moment, not exactly sure what she was asking, and then not exactly sure why she was asking.

“The first one,” he replied. Rome hummed in response as if she was silently judging him for it not being the second.[3] She unlocked the door to her apartment lobby and started stepping in. The angel and the demon did not follow. She stopped and turned around as the door began to close, neither of them moved inside.

“I don’t have to invite y’all in or anything like that, do I?” she asked. “I thought that was vampires.”

“We don’t want to impose-” Aziraphale began.

“Because spying on me for a week ain’t imposing?” She inquired inexorably. Aziraphale looked a little guilty, so she relented. “I’d much rather talk about all this crap inside than out here on the stoop. So, if it’s really getting your panties in a twist, consider yourselves formally invited.” This time when she walked inside, they followed. They followed her up the rickety stairs to the door of the studio apartment she made her home.

The apartment was cramped. One short wall was lined with a kitchen: a narrow counter space, a few overhead cupboards, an oven covered in grease stains, a refrigerator that was groaning away as it kept Rome's food chill, and a sink with a long, curved metal spout and equally stainless-steel basin. There was a futon that looked lumpy but comfortable, patterned with some neutral-colored florals, and decorated with pillows whose cases were clearly sewn from old shirts. A single woven throw blanket sat on the back of the futon. Before it was a coffee table, dark wood streaked and knotted. There were two bookshelves constructed with planks of wood and plastic crates, overflowing with well-worn used books and beloved textbooks. A curtained partition suspended from the ceiling with hooks separated this more substantial part of the apartment to the bed and dresser pushed in the corner, giving a poor semblance of privacy. In spite of how scarcely she lived, it was clear that Rome had constructed comfort and safety in this small studio she made her home, and it was hers, the traces of individuality on every surface.

“I could try to make tea, but I’d probably offend you, and all I have is bags,” Rome said, drawing both Aziraphale and Crowley from their observations of the palace of the Mother of Christ. “I have a crap ton of ginger-ale, though. Helps with the morning sickness.”

“Thank you for the offer, but no thank you,” Aziraphale said politely

“I suppose you don’t have anything stronger?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah, actually, I’m one of those masochistic pregnant women who have a whole cooler full of wine that they just stare longingly at,” Rome drawled sarcastically, grabbing herself a can of off-brand ginger-ale from the refrigerator. The whole thing rocked precariously as the door creaked shut, but Rome seemed unbothered. “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to the futon. The pair shuffled and sat. It was comfortable. Rome cracked open the can and took a long swig, her throat bobbing with her crisp gulps. She must have downed half there can as she walked from the kitchen to the table, sitting down across from the angel and the demon.

“So, would you like us to start at the beginning?” Aziraphale asked.

“Might as well,” Rome shrugged.

“Well, so, in the beginning, in the, er, garden, I was supposed to be a guardian of Eden – technically on apple tree duty. And he-” Aziraphale motioned to Crowley. “Was the wily serpent, so when-”

Aziraphale stopped, not because Crowley shushed him,[4] but because Rome erupted into a fit of giggles. “Gosh, when you said beginning you really meant the fucking _beginning_ ,” Rome managed to say, her words being trilled by her own laughter. The pair of them really didn’t know what to make of her. “Okay, as much as I'd love to hear the meet-cute, I suppose I should give this whole conversation a bit more direction,” Rome finally said, controlling herself. “Can I see those prophecies you mentioned?” Aziraphale took the envelope from his pocket and handed her the three index cards, edges well-worn and fraying from weeks of being held and passed back and forth. Rome skimmed the information, eyes jumping around, chewing her bottom lip with interest. Once she was satisfied with what she had read, she handed them back. “Thanks.”

“So…?” Crowley trailed off inquisitively.

“That third one already happened in full, I think,” Rome said. “A few weeks ago, I was hit by a car. Woke up in a park. That’s when I was persuaded to you know,” she motioned to her abdomen. “Not that She really explained thoroughly exactly that when I would be ‘carrying the hope of humanity’ it would be via my reproductive system. I agreed, what I agreed to I’m still figuring out as I go along.” Rome took a few more gulps of her drink.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale. “When you say ‘She’ explained something to you, you don’t mean the Almighty, do you?”

“Yeah, it was Her,” Rome said. She noted how surprised both of them looked. They were incredibly surprised. It was more than surprising. “It was weird. I know I talked to Her, I know what we talked about, I know what She said. But the memory itself ain’t in my head anymore. She explained I wouldn’t be able to process all that without my brain exploding.” Rome thought back to everything that was in that conversation.

“What did you talk about?” Aziraphale asked.

“Uh, fighting duck-sized horses or horse-sized ducks. You know, why she was talking to me. Oh, what else, oh yeah, She talked about Armageddon not happening and how She was pleased it all went sideways.”

“She did?” Aziraphale asked, sounding incredibly pleased, and smiling bright enough it could have lit up the whole continent if he just put a little more effort behind it. Crowley meanwhile sorts of grit his teeth and sunk deeper into the lumpy futon. Like he had things to say but realized it wasn’t the time.

“Yeah,” Rome said. “So, your former lots and some third group, probably humans, will wind up wanting to stop me from giving birth or something and you plan to… move me somewhere else?”

“That was the standing plan, we were hoping to persuade you after your graduation,” Aziraphale explained. “And keep an eye on you in the meantime.”

“Persuade me to what exactly?”

“Come back to England with us, you’d be far safer there.”

“Why?” Rome asked.

“Well, it would be easier for us to keep an eye on you,” Aziraphale said.

“Haven’t you been doing that?” Rome asked. “Is there some safe place in England that doesn’t exist in America?”

“Well,” Aziraphale began.

“Tadfield,” Crowley said. “You’d be safer in Tadfield.”

“Where the woman you hit with your car lives?” Rome inquired.

“Yes, well, the Antichrist also lives there,” Crowley said. “He can, you know, bend reality just a smidge. Tadfield is a safe place, perfect weather year-round, he protected it with his love and all that mushy stuff.”

“Where is Tadfield?” Rome asked.

“It’s a village not far from Oxford,” Aziraphale explained. “Lovely, quaint place.”

“And y’all think putting the Mother of Christ and the Son of Satan in the same village is going to be just fine and dandy?” Rome asked. Both Angel and Demon shifted uneasily. The Tadfield argument to get her to England was less of their belief that Tadfield would actually be safer, but their desire to return to their lives and not slink around Tucson, Arizona after a twenty-three-year-old Master of Philosophy in dire need of professional therapy. “Alright, follow-up question, do you two really expect for me to abandon my entire life and run off to a different country because you two think it would be the easiest course of action?”

“Not like you have much of a life here,” Crowley quipped, looking around the miserable studio.

“I know it’s pathetic, but it’s mine, and I worked hard for it,” Rome said. “Besides, it’s not like you’re asking me to give up my things. You’re asking me to give up my agency, my ability to make my own life, it’s significant.”

“You agreed to become a vessel for the Almighty, this is likely just the easiest way to ensure you fill that role successfully,” Aziraphale explained gently.

“Oh, so my role is to be a vessel?” Rome sounded offended. “This ain’t _The Handmaid’s Tale_ , you know. If you’re telling me all I am is a uterus, I reject that narrative.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Aziraphale insisted.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Rome yielded. “But there are billions of functioning uteri on the planet that could have gotten knocked up, and if the concept of virginity was vitally important, there’s certainly a fair number of girls with chastity rings that would’ve been more than happy to be a sacred womb and little else. I have to assume if I’m the one who was given this responsibility, I’m something that other people aren’t, so is it really ‘filling my role’ for me to do something I never would have chosen to do?”

“What do you want to do?” Crowley asked.

That was a complicated answer if Rome was honest. She wanted to survive, that was her mantra since she was very young. For someone who spoke so cavalierly about the relief of death, she was driven to want to see the sunrise each morning, like an ever-exhausting bone-deep instinct. She spent so long just fighting for survival that she really rarely thought about her desires beyond that. The next layer in her hierarchy of desires was that Rome wanted to be useful and validated. She liked philosophy because she realized early on, in her intro to philosophy class Rome took for general education requisites, that Rome was good at providing nuance to complex issues, and she was good at analyzing and explaining her thinking. Rome had fallen into one topic and chased success because it felt good to be appreciated for something, he seemed to have some natural talent for. Then, finally, if Rome was honest, the most extensive and most essential desire of Rome’s was one of hubris, she wanted to improve the world. It was a side-effect of her nuanced analysis of the world around her. She felt like she could figure out the solutions to some of the problems. She wanted to help other people, to end their suffering with kindness in a way nobody assuaged hers when she was younger. If the baby was the only way, she could ensure that she could commit herself to motherhood, but she wanted more than that. She wanted to make those who were cruel and foolish to realize the errors of their ways, she wanted to impart the wisdom that she had worked hard for, and she wanted to relieve the despairing praying masses that haunted her dreams. She wanted to take everything so evident in her mind, like the galaxies above, and impart them on those who would instead put the sky back than face the painful glory of reality.

Crowley realized that he had asked a serious question the moment it passed his lips. Because Rome’s answer was clearly an ambitious one. He was good at figuring out what people wanted, at how they felt, and what made them tick. That’s why he was so effective at his demonism when he really worked hard for it. He knew temptation, the best temptation, was tempting someone with something that they already desperately desired. Why waste time trying to put thoughts and desires in someone’s head when you could play with the ones that were already there? Everyone, humans, angels, and demons alike weren’t immune to what they wanted. It just took a matter of making their desires seem attainable through means that suited Crowley, which made temptation effective. Human desires were usually simple things: The desire for wealth, for comfort, for love, for life, for pleasure, for recognition. The desires of angels and demons were even more straightforward, either do what God wanted[5] or do the complete opposite. While humans often desired simple things, it was clear that this particular human, chosen and spoken to by the Almighty Herself, was far from simple. Crowley asked what she wanted, and her eyes suddenly reminded him of thunderstorms. Dark slate-colored storm clouds, and the crackling smell of ozone, and the cold, harsh rain, and the bursts of silver lightning through the sky. The same monstrous storms that first fell as humanity departed from Eden that washed away civilization that both destroyed and nourished Creation.

“I just want to help folks,” Rome finally said. “And I’m quite certain I’m capable of much more than childbirth.”

One would perhaps assume, Rome then thought very little of childbirth. And maybe, in the modern world, the dangers of birth weren’t as severe as they had been for the few millennia prior. But Rome did not think little of childbirth. She had seen her own mother survive it three times. She knew how monumental, how powerful, how dangerous, and how vital it was to build another human being with your own essence, and then bring them to the world with screaming and bloodshed. Childbirth was dangerously necessary for humanity would cease to exist without it, and Rome was undoubtedly capable of more.

“I’ll need some time to consider it,” Rome finally said. “Before I make this decision. It’ll depend more on the potential of danger in the future for me to reconsider everything.”

“We understand,” Aziraphale said.

“I graduate next week,” Rome said. “I’ll have an answer by then.”

The duo eventually left to conspicuously watch her apartment building, and Rome decided she might as well try to get some rest. She had a very long day. And her head was still swimming with the question of what she wanted to do. Nothing clarified her answer more than the broken prayers that haunted her sleep.

* * *

ROBERT KUSACH LIVED in Tucson, Arizona. He had lived there for the last ten years of his life. Robert Kusach considered himself a moral, hard-working, God-fearing man. He was a public servant, the head of the Tucson sector of Customs and Border Patrol, a father of two, and an amateur grill master.[6] Robert Kusach was not a bad person, which is a vitally important thing to understand. The world is too vast and too complicated and also ever-changing for someone to be something as finite and absolute as “good” or “bad.” Robert Kusach donated to charity around the holiday season, he was a good and devoted father to his son and daughter (eight and five). He was a decent enough husband to his wife, perhaps he could’ve put in a bit more effort helping his wife with menial things like dishes and laundry, but he was loving. The issue with Robert Kusach was that he liked to do what was expected of him. He followed the rules, the ones given to him by his government, and the ones given to him by his pastor. And he tended to ignore when those two orders conflicted. It wasn’t that he was ignorant to when the stories of love, sympathy, and hospitality clashed with his management of several border detention camps, it was an active decision of his to ignore. He felt guilty, sometimes, when he went to bed. But he kept himself assured that he was just a public servant, a cog in the machine, doing what was asked of him.

He lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in one of those neighborhoods where all the houses were identical versions of beige stucco with brown and white accents. He and his wife were asleep in their room, the windows cracked slightly so the fresh air of the evening could breeze past the screens and into where they slept. Down the hall, his daughter was sleeping soundly in her pink room full of books about astronomy, and his son was sleeping in his blue room with piles of superhero action figures and barbies on the floor. All four of them woke up in the middle of the night when the doorbell rang. At two in the morning. The sharp ringing had Robert and his wife exchanging confused expressions, concerned expressions. Who on Earth would ring their doorbell at two in the morning? Robert was the one who went downstairs with a metal baseball bat[7] while his wife crept behind him with her phone, ready to call the police if need be. Robert, still dreary and slow-footed from sleep, finally reached the front door and peered through the small window, seeing a short woman on his stoop. She was reclined casually in his doorway, seeming unbothered and unembarrassed of her presence at his home at such an ungodly hour. She didn’t look like she was armed. Robert motioned for his wife to stand out of view of the door and decided to open it to ask this woman why she was here. The door opened, and her eyes caught his. They were grey, nearly silver, and glowing in the moonlight.

“Robert Kusach?” She asked, looking over his sleepwear, an old college t-shirt, flannel pants, and a well-worn bathrobe he had thrown on the way out the bedroom. She spoke carefully and slowly, enunciating his name like she hadn’t ever spoken English before and was still acquainting herself with the sounds.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“You can,” she said with a smile. “You work at Customs and Border Patrol.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Robert still answered her with a delayed, “…Yes.”

“You’re the head of this sector,” she continued.

“Yes,” Robert said again. “I’m sorry, how do you know where I live? Do I know you?”

“No. But I know a lot of things about you, Robert. I know you were in the Army until you were honorably discharged from an injury. I know you started working for Homeland Security shortly after the twin towers fell because you hoped you could make a difference behind a desk, protecting your country, and all. I know about your wife, Beth, and your two kids, Liam and Jayna. Jayna likes astronomy, doesn’t she? You got her a big picture book of NASA pictures for her last birthday.” All of this information was readily available with a sharp eye and some research on Facebook, LinkedIn, one local newspaper article, and a review for an astronomy book on Amazon, but the woman didn't reveal that and Robert was unaware of it.

As if they knew they were being spoken of, there was a delicate patter of feet on the stairs, and the children came downstairs.

“Daddy, what’s going on?” Jayna asked, rubbing her eyes. Liam pulled his little sister back, recognizing their Dad looked scared, and he had the bat. Beth rushed out of where she was hidden out of sight to grab her children protectively.

“Don’t you dare threaten my kids!” Robert exclaimed.

“I would never,” the mysterious young woman sounded horrified at the thought. “I swear, I mean no harm.”

“Then, why are you here?” Robert asked.

“Because you’re the one doing harm,” the woman said. “You oversee all border activities and facilities along the borders of New Mexico and Arizona, correct? And that includes the detention centers you’ve been placing the refugees in.”

Robert finally realized what all this was about, and he was angry. This woman was some political activist. Instead of doing the right thing – sending letters to senators and signing petitions and everything that made the system thrive – she had violated his privacy and his comfort. She had woken him up and scared his family. “How dare you!”

“Is the truth offensive?” she asked vaguely.

“You’re here just for some dumb political-”

“Political?” She suddenly asked sharply. “You think human rights offenses are political?”

“Look, take it up with my boss, they’re the ones who make the rules-”

“Rules,” she echoed, sounding disappointed. “I need to show you something, Robert. Do you mind driving with me? We’ll have to use your car.”

“No – I – you’re not taking me anywhere! You – I’m calling the police!”

“Robert,” she said carefully, sounding both sympathetic and exasperated. Her tone was a kind warning. “Just let me ask you a question. One question. Then I promise I’ll leave, no need to call the police.”

“Fine,” he said.

“Can you tell me, completely and wholly, that you go to sleep every night with a clear conscience?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” he said, closing the door in her face.

 _But do you?_ A little voice in the back of his head inquired.

“What the hell was that?” Beth asked.

“Just some crazy activist,” Robert said, “Take the kids up to bed. I – I need a drink.” Beth nodded and escorted Liam and Jayna upstairs, her voice a reassuring whisper. Robert made his way from the entryway to the kitchen. He found a half-empty bottle of bourbon in a high cupboard the kids couldn’t reach and poured himself a glass. He stood there in the dim light of his kitchen, the silver moonlight cast across the pale granite countertops. The same shade as that strange woman’s eyes. He lied to her, he realized. He sometimes felt a little bit of guilt, but he was trapped in his place in the system. He could’ve made the facilities better if he had the finances, it wasn’t his fault they didn’t invest the funding. That was higher up the food chain. And when it had come out in the news a few weeks ago there that was a Facebook group making fun of the refugees, calling them animals and posting distressing images, they had heavily reprimanded everyone they knew who was involved. They had rules for these things. Rules, how had that woman looked so disgusted at the thought of rules? Rules were what built society. Rules were important. Rules were – Rules were –

 _A crutch_ , a quiet voice whispered in Robert’s head. _A way to pass your blame onto something else. A way to pretend you’re doing the right thing because you’re following rules._

God, he hoped that he wasn’t wrong about rules.

“You are,” a soft voice said. Robert stood up and whipped around, realizing that he didn’t have the baseball bat in reach. The woman was in his home now. She was standing in his kitchen in the pale glow of the moon through his wide windows.

“Get out of my house!” he exclaimed.

“Come on, Robert,” she said softly.

“I’m calling the police!”

“Robert,” she sighed. “You and I both know that is not going to fix this.”

“Fix what?” Robert asked.

“Your soul,” she replied. “You pray for the rules sometimes, you know. You do it more than you pray for your family’s health or God’s forgiveness. You pray that the rules aren’t driving you the wrong way. You don’t question them, you don’t question your role, you just hope the rules are right. You hope the rules don’t make things worse. But they do, Robert. Your rules are hurting people. Let me show you, Robert, please, and we can fix this.”

He had to be drunk, drunk from a few sips of bourbon, but drunk all the same. How could he be considering this woman’s offer? There was something about the way she spoke, it reminded him of a choir’s lullaby, of sunlight through stained glass. There was no accent he could place, her measured enunciation layered with different regional dialects in such a way her identity was indistinguishable. But that wasn’t what was important to Robert. The important thing was that she wasn’t angry at him, she wasn’t trying to scare him, she was offering to help him. This was insane! This was ridiculous! This was batshit!

And yet, five minutes later, Robert was driving through Tucson as the witching hour approached, heading toward the nearest detention facility on this woman’s request.

“What’s your name?” Robert asked her.

“Mary,” she replied carefully.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Because it’s my responsibility,” Mary assured him. “I promise you’ll understand everything.”

And somehow, that was enough for him. He didn’t have his phone, and he was sure if he did, his wife would be calling again and again with concern. He was doing what this woman told him would be the best way to go about things, and he wasn’t scared. He continued. He used his credentials to be let inside, the night guard thoroughly confused why his boss’s, boss’s boss was here so early in the morning in his pajamas. He parked his car, and while the head warden of the camp in question invited the pair of them to his office to talk about official business, Mary ignored this and set off with determination in one direction.

“Is this some sort of journalist?” the warden asked.

“No, no, she’s… more important,” Robert said, following Mary. With them beside her, the guards let them through to the holding facilities. The first thing that hit them was the stench. The warden and Robert both covered their nose and mouths, Mary made a face, but it was like she was expecting it. They finally came across the narrow corrals made of chain-link fences, people packed in and shivering beneath shiny metallic mylar blankets. Most of them were asleep, but those who were awake watched the three of them – warden, Robert, and Mary – with blank and empty eyes.

“Don’t look away, don’t ignore it anymore,” Mary whispered to Robert. He saw their emaciated faces. He saw the dirt and grime. He saw the fear. “They’re humans, just like you. Deserving no less than you, and yet, they’re caged like animals.”

“When was the last time they had showers?” Robert asked the warden; the smell was getting to him.

“Sir, we’re overcrowded, our facilities-”

“When?”

“It depends. They get one when they come in.”

“And then?”

“It depends how long they’ve been here. About once a month.”

“Is this justice?” Mary asked quietly.

“They could’ve come here legally, they chose not to. They’ve broken the law,” The warden insisted.

“What a terrible law,” Mary replied. “To see the needy, the hungry, and the ill, and to imprison them. To see those fleeing violence and suffering, and to subject them to more. Only a man of complete moral depravity would write such a law, and only a coward or a fool or a sadist would follow it.

“Who is she?” the warden asked. “What the hell is going on, Robert?”

“Listen,” Mary whispered. She reached out, grabbing the wrists of both the warden and Robert. Her grip wasn’t rough, but it was unyielding. “Listen.” She said softly, looking like she was also praying to something. It was as if she wasn’t confident that this would work, but she desperately believed that it would, and so, it did. The sound came to them slowly. First, it was a dull white noise, blended in with the ambiance of the facility, of people sleeping fitfully under bright light and stirring to see the strange display of a woman in a Hawaiian shirt, the warden, and a man in pajamas standing in the facility. And then it got louder, it was a sound, but it was a feeling more than anything. It was desperation and fear, it was uncertainty and pain, and it was suffering. It was loud and bright and painful suffering. Prayers for mercy, for grace, for kindness, for forgiveness. Prayers for deliverance that seemed to never come. It hurt. It was agony. Robert felt himself crying, the warden was shaking, and Mary let go. “You heard, didn’t you?” she asked softly. The men nodded. “You caused this, you know. Maybe not directly, but either you helped allow this to happen or you did nothing to stop it. This cruelty and suffering shouldn’t just be their burden, it should be yours. And it will be yours if you let it continue.”

“We’re just following orders,” the warden said.

“So were the Nazis,” Mary said. “That didn’t mean they were right. Maybe you won’t turn into them, but is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

Robert was starting to realize that Mary wasn’t just a political activist, and he dropped to his knees. “Please, forgive me, please.”

“If you want forgiveness, be worthy of it,” Mary whispered. “Help them. Break rules, break laws, tear down the system you hold so dear if you must. But help them. Because you can. If you can end their suffering if you can lighten their load if you can offer salvation, why won’t you? The unjust laws of your fellow man? You know what is kind and what is right, Robert, why aren’t you doing it?”

“What can I do?” Robert asked.

“Give the orders to cease and desist,” Mary said. “Close the camps. Let the refugees go. Call the people you know will help. You’ll be surprised how quickly one virtuous act can spawn others. It won’t be easy, there will be consequences. I wish desperately that doing the right thing would always be rewarded, but a broken system can’t allow for kindness. If you do this, it will alleviate their suffering, and it’ll help make you a better person.” Robert looked up at Mary. The halogen fluorescents suspended above, hanging from the ceiling, backlit her magnificently. The pale, harsh light seemed to soften and warp around her body like she was the radiant one.

* * *

[1] The answer to that question was, in fact, quite inane. The crowd that had passed by Crowley and Aziraphale before they rounded the corner was large enough, and Rome was short enough that she was able to blend in innocuously. Because neither Crowley nor Aziraphale was expecting her in the crowd and round them, neither noticed her.

[2] This was a slight hyperbole on Rome’s part.

[3] Crowley was also silently cursing himself for the same reason.

[4] Crowley did, however, _desperately_ want to shush him.

[5] Of course, the angelic and demonic opinion of “what God wanted” wasn’t necessarily the reality of what God wanted. Often, in fact, their perceptions of what God wanted were obfuscated by their own misunderstandings and the consequences of their limited capacities of free will and thought. “What God wants” all too quickly became “what I think God should want” or “what I was told God wants.”

[6] That, of course, meant that for Father’s Day a few years ago, he had gotten a decent grill from his wife and children. In the time since, he had used the grill in question about a dozen times, yielding what was mostly edible with a few embarrassing exceptions.

[7] He did, in fact, own a gun, but being a responsible gun owner, it was stored with its ammo in a safe in the basement, and therefore a home defense item rendered useless in the sudden need to possibly defend the home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've volunteered at Asylum Shelters in my state, and it's challenging for those folks. They're living out of reusable grocery bags and sleeping on stretchers, and those are the ones who aren't in ICE custody but are at volunteer shelters and halfway houses. If you want to help, there's always RAICES, the ACLU, the Texas Civil Rights Project, and the Florence Project. The best way to help them is to get them out of ICE custody, and that requires lawyers and legal fees. I've also heard that there are bail fundraisers on GoFundMe. If you live in the United States along the southern border, especially, you might have a local asylum shelter, they always need donations and volunteers.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I really appreciate your feedback in any and all forms, kudos, comments, bookmarks, you name it. I really enjoy interacting with you all and hearing your thoughts, especially.


	9. Looks Like I Strayed To The Arms That Were Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Archangel, The Prince of Hell, and a Modus Vivendi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your continued response to this fic! I'm so very fond of all of you.  
> Just a few notes:  
> \- Ineffable Bureaucracy enters the Thunderdome.  
> \- I know Beelzebub doesn't buzz that much, but I love dropping z's, especially for zir ze/zir pronouns.  
> \- I don't understand why this has scenes that remind me of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, but it does, maybe it's just the Washington D.C. background.

IT WAS CONSIDERED a modern Exodus. In the early morning before dawn, the government-run refugee camps opened their gates and unlocked their cages, and the guards left. Within the hour, humanitarian and volunteer groups had descended. Within two hours, the news had flocked to see the hundreds of refugees flee their containment. Volunteers with busses and harried translators were helping coordinate with the refugees to get them to municipal community centers, to private residences, to whatever facilities were available for them to find shelter, food, clothes, and medical care. Sponsors and volunteers were trickling out of the woodwork, doctors, and lawyers mobilizing in all their professionalism to offer whatever they could. It was a human tragedy as it began, and it was a human rhapsody as it ended.

When word spread of what happened, when there where whispers of morality over legality, when it finally looked like people were doing something in the face of injustice and turning your back on the rules would be without consequence because a line of backs became a wall, it cascaded. Guards abandoned their post without orders, protestors and activists gathered in surges and cut open fences. It wasn’t flawless. People fought for injustice while thinking rules circumvented empathy. Was moral depravity justified by equally foul institutions? To them, it was. There was fighting, there was screaming, there was fury, there was tweeting, there was the talk of the military coming. It was chaos, but it was human, and the humans with aching hearts saw the flood of need as a call to action. Whatever made the dam burst wasn’t known. A late-night visit and a desperate plea were only significant in their consequence. Because of this, some decreed the mass freedom an Act of God, but they would be wrong. It was an entire Symphony: composed, conducted, and performed by humanity. God was just sitting in the eaves of the theater with a smile on Her face.

Rome wasn’t compelled to take responsibility for what she did. If anybody asked Rome whether she had anything to do with opening the gates, she would have been honest. Nobody asked Rome if she had anything to do with it, because she really didn’t seem like the sort to wake up from another horrible nightmare about what was happening fifty miles away, google the head of the Tucson sector for Customs and Border Patrol, find his address, spy on his private life, visit him early in the morning, and use the fact that she could hear praying when she listened for it to know about the guilt that sat heavy in his heart. That she took him to the camps that haunted her nightmares and made him face the suffering he rightfully regretted. She wasn’t even aware that her words and her presence were able to bring pious men to their knees, that light behind her would look like a halo, she just wanted someone to do the right thing. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that the nightmares would end. So as long as there was a world, there would be those who suffered and begged for relief. But the fact was that Rome wasn’t doomed just to listen, but that she could do something about it, that had been a more significant relief than silence could ever be.

Robert Kusach was eventually determined to be the one who gave the order to open the camps, for the guards to leave. And in the confusion and chaos of their orders, nobody realized that he told them to go because he wanted them to be free. They all assumed the system would keep spinning the way it always had, and who refused an order from someone above them in a system that cared more about accountability than impartiality? Kusach was a hero to many and a traitor to others. But he stood by his decision, and he and his family could be seen volunteering at one of the refugee shelters in Tucson when journalists went to investigate. He eventually agreed to an interview for the local news, which was then broadcasted to the major networks.

On the day of this interview broadcast, which happened to be a Tuesday, Rome was eating lunch with Crowley and Aziraphale. It happened like this: they wanted to keep an eye on her instead of spying on her, and she supposed if it made them happier, it was better to just eat at restaurants. Especially because the angel had good taste in food and Rome was never expected to pay. For example, she had never eaten at one of the unconventional Japanese restaurants in the entertainment district of downtown Tucson. And now, there was a demon drinking sake, an angel enjoying sushi, and Rome was eating the best ramen in her life. Apparently, it was better if it wasn’t prepackaged with a sodium content higher than her SAT score.[1] Rome was pretending she was uninterested in the television broadcast, but her eyes scanned the delayed captions, looking for when the live interview would be. When it finally did begin, she watched. Crowley and Aziraphale noticed her interest and did so as well, continuing their back-and-forth to the new topic.[2]

“He’s a good man,” Aziraphale said. “I’m glad someone finally did something.”

“He’ll be arrested, martyred,” Crowley said. “The good ones always are. If he’s smart at all, he’ll turn this all into a publicity stunt and write some feel-good book. Then he’s just selfish and opportunistic, not dangerous.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that, perhaps he’s a good man with a chance,” Aziraphale said. “They haven’t done it yet.”

“Because nobody knows why he did it,” Crowley insisted. “As soon as they find out he’s a good person and not some foreign traitor, they’ll brand him as a foreign traitor or mentally deranged.”

“ _Mister Kusach, the question that everyone’s been meaning to ask is what made you do this? Many attribute you to first releasing the refugees from the detention centers. The momentum has now spread across the entire country. What made you decide to go against federal orders?_ ”

“See, if he doesn’t say ‘Russia’ or ‘Iran’ or ‘North Korea’ he’s done for,” Crowley insisted.

“ _It was the right thing to do_ ,” Kusach said. “ _I was suddenly confronted with the reality of the system I was complicit in, and I could no longer be a part of something so morally depraved_.”

Aziraphale sighed mournfully, and Crowley looked somewhat smug or victorious.

“ _But of all days, why that day? What made you have your change in heart?_ ”

“I bet it’s some sob story about seeing a little baby cry,” Crowley said.

“Or perhaps the man actually had a moment of enlightenment and clarity,” Aziraphale argued.

“ _I just… I sort of just realized_ ,” Robert Kusach said, his answer weak and obviously not betraying the whole story. The interviewer looked at him with inquisitive disbelief. “ _It’s crazy, really. If I tell you what happened._ ”

“ _I think everyone would like to hear it, no matter how crazy it seems,_ ” the interviewer said. She could have been a wonderful interrogator for the CIA or something if she hadn’t decided to instead of all her pressing on television in a pencil skirt because Kusach caved readily. Of course, he probably wanted to tell someone. He was brimming with that sort of eager confidence of a revelation, feeling his faith was vindicated, and wanting to spread the word.

He chuckled, “ _Alright, but don’t judge me_.”

“ _I won’t_ ,” the interviewer assured.

“Maybe it was something weird like a message in his toast. Humans love finding messages in their toast,” Crowley muttered.

“ _I was visited in the middle of the night by the Virgin Mary_ ,” Robert Kusach said. Crowley and Aziraphale snapped up to look at the screen. “ _I would’ve thought it was a dream except, well, my wife saw her, too. And she made me drive her to the detention center, and she told me I was chosen to free the refugees_.”

“I never said that!” Rome protested before she caught herself. Angel and demon swiveled to look at her with scrutiny. “Because I’m not the Virgin Mary, technically, and I definitely didn’t break into that man’s house, convince him to drive me to a detention center, and yell at him about refugees.”

“You didn’t,” Crowley shook his head.

“You did this?” Aziraphale asked.

“Sort of?” Rome shrugged. “I – well, I said I was more than a uterus, and once the idea got in my head, I couldn’t drop it.”

“You can visit people in their sleep?” Crowley asked.

“No, I looked up his address and rang his doorbell, everything's on the internet,” Rome said, shoveling a large mouthful of ramen into her face as if that could end the conversation.

“And you just convinced a man to break the law?” Aziraphale asked.

“Bullshit law,” Rome insisted through her noodles.

“With your words?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah,” Rome said. She finished chewing and swallowing. She glanced up at the television, where it showed children at the refugee assistance center playing, kicking around a soccer ball and smiling. People were passing out water, food, and clothes. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. And that put a smile on Rome’s face.

“So, you’re in the saving souls business now?” Crowley asked her as soon as she smiled at the happy scene. Rome’s smile vanished, she rolled her eyes and shoveled another decent helping of ramen into her mouth.

* * *

THE NATIONAL MALL in Washington, D.C. is a short distance from Capitol Hill, many monuments and museums clustered together. The grand reflecting pool had one footpath wrapped around it. Then, there was a gap of grass and trees, and a second footpath, this one lined with trees and black chain barriers to keep the wandering humans from treading across the lawn. The second path had interspaced black benches, every few hundred feet or so. In the early morning, these footpaths were occupied for the most part by bicyclists and joggers, getting their cardio workouts before they went to work, most of them employed in public service of some sort. One such jogger was going along the path with considerable ease, his feet pounding against the pale grey pavement and his body bobbing up and down only slightly. He was a larger man with salt-and-pepper hair. He didn’t look very different from all the other joggers: wearing a pale grey sweatshirt and pale grey joggers. His running shoes were so brightly white; it looked like they had just been retrieved from the box they came in. There was no stain of sweat, no smear of grime, no single visible flaw. After he had looped around this path of the national mall probably twice before whatever brought him to D.C. finally showed itself, or rather, zirself.

The jogging man was flawless, and also, completely innocuous. He could have blended in with thousands. The person who he was meeting was quite the opposite. For the passers-by, when they noticed the person on the bench, the first thing that struck them was the very large fly-shaped hat atop zir head. It was not very usual that the national mall was graced with someone wearing an insect hat. Ze was also wearing a suit, zir blazer had worn tails, and zir trousers were pinstriped with touches of purple. Other splashes of color were the orange spots on zir socks, the orange sash across zir body, and the blues, greens, oranges and purple tassels from the pin at zir black cravat. When he noticed zir, he slowed to a stop by the bench ze was seated and adjusted the flawless ties at his shoes.

“Lord Beelzebub,” He greeted zir shortly. They both looked around, as if concerned that they would be suddenly dragged upstairs or downstairs by their respective Hosts for daring to meet at a park bench.

“Archangel Gabriel,” Beelzebub responded with an equally brusque nod.[3]

“Are you prepared to converse?” Gabriel asked, peering carefully at the demon.

“So long azzz you don’t zzzmite me for coming to _your_ meeting,” Beelzebub replied, sounding indifferent to the thought more than anything. Gabriel accepted that and sat down on the bench beside the Lord of Hell. There was a moment of silence before Beelzebub finally broke it by speaking again, “What izzz the point of thizzz?”

“You heard about the apparition in Arizona?” Gabriel inquired. How could the demon not have heard about it? Everyone knew about the apparition in Arizona. The Virgin Mary visiting a man and persuading him into freeing thousands of refugees by betraying orders? If it was an act of above or below, it was one of the greatest ones since the Antichrist on Earth, perhaps more significant if they just looked at the consequences.

“Yes, congratulationzzzzzz,” Beelzebub sneered with a droll buzz. “You came here to gloat, then?”

“Officially, yes,” Gabriel said. “Freeing thousands of refugees is very virtuous. The humans helping them are all on our side now.”

“So, can I leave?” Beelzebub asked. “Or izzz there more?”

“Well, unofficially, between you and I, Heaven had nothing to do with it,” Gabriel said.

“You had an unzzzanctioned apparizzzion of the Virgin Mary?” Beelzebub gaped, forgetting their unbothered demeanor for a moment. How did that even occur? Apparitions were often the saints residing in heaven temporarily sent to walk on Earth, sometimes angels were the messengers, rarely the Almighty.

“Unfortunately,” Gabriel sighed. He glanced and Beelzebub carefully, “Your side didn’t have anything to do with it, I assume?”

“What evil would it do to free refugeezzzz?” Beelzebub asked, sounding offended.

“It’s drawn concern from higher authority,” Gabriel admitted in a hushed voice. “So, I checked the Earth Observational Files. And that’s really why I contacted you.” Gabriel manifested a series of photographs from the pockets between space and time and handed them to Lord Beelzebub. “It’s them.”

“They had something to do with thizzz?” Beelzebub asked. Ze looked through the photographs Gabriel handed zir. It was the angel, Aziraphale, and the demon, Crowley, in Tucson, Arizona. Beelzebub was vaguely aware that this was the place where the alleged apparition had occurred. “Firzzt, they zzurvive hellfire and holy water, and now they can make apparizzzionzz?”

“We’re not sure it was an apparition. The night in question,” Gabriel urged for Beelzebub to continue flipping forward through the pictures. Beelzebub saw a woman and a man talking. “That man is Robert Kusach who alleges he was visited by the Virgin Mary.”

“And thizzz woman?” Beelzebub asked.

“Rosemarie Lowell, human,” Gabriel said. “Not an apparition.”

“I don’t understand,” Beelzebub said.

“She’s working for them,” Gabriel explained. Beelzebub shuffled to another image of the angel and demon and human talking at a dining establishment. “Clearly, they’re planning something. I’m proposing… a Modus Vivendi.”

“Moduzzzz Vivendi?” Beelzebub inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“To determine precisely what they want with this woman, what their plans are, and what they’re doing next. And, to find a way to put an end to it. Obviously, our traditional methods were… unsuccessful. I haven’t told my superiors, and I suppose you haven’t either.”

“We thought they would just zztay on Earth and be uzzzelezzz together,” Beelzebub said.

“If it comes to fruition that we failed at stopping them, and they’re violating what is ordained, that’ll be bad for both of us.”

“So, what are you propozzzing?” Beelzebub asked.

“I send angels, you send demons, they both investigate this ordeal, they don’t interfere with the others, and we exchange relevant intel,” Gabriel said.

“An allianzzze between an angel and a demon is precisely what made a mezzz in the first plazzze,” Beelzebub reminded Gabriel.

“Yes, I know,” Gabriel said. “But their alliance was in opposition to the Plan and what is Written. Ours is in conference with it. We know they want to protect creation. We cannot have our war until creation is destroyed and the four horsemen are re-summoned, as it were. Ergo, their plan will likely come in the way of our final resolution. And you cannot have a war without War, Beelzebub.”

“Indeed,” Beelzebub agreed darkly. Ze buzzed to zirself in thought. Ze didn’t want to collaborate, but what was a small modus vivendi if it meant the war further down the line, and the eventual victory of Hell in the Glorious Revolution? “But thizzz ztayzz unoffizzzial. Completely.”

“Naturally,” Gabriel agreed. “So, we agree to this Modus Vivendi?”

“Temporarily,” Beelzebub insisted. “Until we know what they are planning, and we find a way to extinguish them from exizztenzzzzz.”

* * *

WHEN ROME GRADUATED from High School, she was the only student in the entire school whose parents or legal guardians weren’t in attendance. She had no siblings or grandparents in the stands. It wasn’t like her family didn’t know she was graduating or couldn’t attend. But she had been kicked out two years prior, and while she still went to the same High School for all those four years, and her family lived in the same town, they weren’t there when she graduated. She thought she could handle it, walking across the stage with no family cheering her name, having her diploma, and not posing with it for her mother’s Kodiak. But she found herself sobbing in her cap and gown in the parking lot of her high school gymnasium while everyone else went with their families to celebrate the next stage in their lives. Rome went to Tucson that evening, driving straight through Texas and New Mexico in one trip, only stopping to pee, get gas, and buy crappy junk food.

Four years later, Rome didn’t even bother with her undergraduate graduation. She didn’t invite her family, she didn’t even think about them. She worked it out with her advisor at the time to be given her degree in private, and she never bothered with caps or gowns, telling herself she would be graduating again with her master’s in a year anyway, so what was the point? Rome’s classmates graduated, and she pulled a double shift at the diner and used her tips to buy herself a bottle of tequila. She got drunk, stared at her degree for a minute, and then fell asleep watching Nicholas Cage movies[4]. It perhaps wasn’t the resounding victory worthy of four years of hard work, but at the time, Rome was too lonely to consider celebrating anything.

Now, the pregnancy was in the way of repeating her tequila ritual, she didn’t have a job, and her graduate advisor refused to allow her to consider graduating any other way than marching across the stage in a cap and gown, layered in stoles and cords. She had emailed her relatives a short update of her graduation plans before she knew she was pregnant. If the update were honest, it would have been written like so:[5] “Hi, people I haven’t spoken to in 5-10 years after you violently cut me off after years of emotional and physical abuse! I’m graduating in a month from the University of Arizona with a master’s degree in Philosophy, which is more formal college education than any of you! I know it’s probably too short notice for you to come to Tucson to see me graduate, except it totally ain’t. But if you can’t make it, the University is live streaming the event at this link if you want to watch from the comfort of the deep south and all its bigotry. Anyway, I’m terrified of being completely alone but resigned to the fact that nobody loves me and cares about my achievements, so I’m still seeking validation in unhealthy places. I hope you’re all in good health except for those of you who deserve colon cancer. Thanks!”

On the day of her graduation with her Master’s, Rome went through the rehearsed actions in her cap and gown, stoles and cords galore. She walked across the stage and accepted her degree with a smile and a handshake. Everything else, the commencement speeches and the sounds of the crowd, were a dull blur. It wasn’t until the graduates were free to meet their families and there was a crowd growing outside that Rome’s state of mind of rehearsed motions and movements faded and she was met with a familiar feeling: being lonely when you were surrounded by hundreds of people. She swallowed it down, like a rock in her throat, and made her way to the edges of the crowd, ready to go to the bus stop and go home. She was used to this now, but even when you’re expecting a lash, you wince when it strikes.

“Oi, Madonna!” A brash, British voice called.

Rome turned around and saw Aziraphale and Crowley coming over. Crowley was sauntering with his swinging hips, while Aziraphale was striding. Crowley had the graduation ceremony pamphlet rolled up in his fist, and Aziraphale was carrying a bouquet of yellow, cream, and white roses. Rome was shocked to see them there. She knew that they knew she was graduating, she wouldn’t’ve been surprised to find out that they were keeping an eye on her for the ceremony. But the fact that they had brought her flowers? Rome was used to loneliness, when she was alone and when she wasn’t, but this was unfamiliar.

“Congratulations!” Aziraphale exclaimed, presenting the flowers to her. He was beaming brightly, looking proud of the bouquet that Rome was quite confident he picked out, just from the point of color coordination. They were bright and beautiful flowers, and what more, they were a gift. They were a celebration of her hard work. They were a sign of respect.

“Thank you,” Rome said, trying and barely succeeding at not crying. She took the flowers. She wasn’t even a floral person, and yet she was so genuinely, painfully touched. She thought back to every recital, every rehearsal, every graduation, every moment that she did something. And each time in her life, either her achievements were ignored, or she was told that they, and she, were not enough. That the desire for acknowledgment and respect was pride, that daring to want validation was an act of evil. “Really, these are so sweet, you didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale insisted. “We just, well, I – I thought it was well-deserved. But don’t let us keep you, really, you must have a family to get to.”

“No,” Rome said, her smile didn’t falter, but it sobered.

“You don’t have a family?” Aziraphale asked.

“I have relatives,” Rome replied lightly. “Parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins, all the extensions. But none of them wanted to come, so none of them are here.”

“So, you’re alone?” Aziraphale asked he looked a little stunned, a little surprised, and mostly sympathetic.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Rome smiled reassuringly, “These two strange fellas showed up and gave me flowers even after I threatened ‘em at gunpoint. Pretty hard to feel lonely when that happens.” After all, she had promised, hadn’t She? “I’ll pack up tonight, and you two can drag me off to England in the morning.”

“You don’t seem very happy about that,” Aziraphale said, walking beside her.

“Well, I mean, it’s what I have to do, right?” Rome asked. “Obviously, it’s not ideal or easy, but, if its to keep me and the whole future of humanity safe, it’d be horrible of me to disagree, right?” She glanced at the angel and the demon, gauging their responses. Rome had assumed for quite some time their Tadfield argument was just construction to convince Rome to go with them to their regular lives. It seemed like this whole thing was a temporary inconvenience to them, but it was Rome’s entire life. She was repressing a metric fuckton of insecurities and existential dread about what her life had turned into, and they wanted to go back to their home.

"It's just, you know, now how I planned things to go. It’s, stupid, really, for me to complain. You know, this is a responsibility, and I accepted it. Whatever vague ideas I had for the rest of my life are notwithstanding.” But here’s the thing about the demon that she knew, he was a rebel. He didn’t like rules and institutions, especially stupid ones. And wasn’t it absurd to convince a woman to give up all her hopes and dreams because God put a baby in her without giving a thorough explanation of what she agreed to? It wasn’t just stupid, it was an act of establishment. And Crowley twitched behind his glasses at her words. “Even, you know, the little dumb ones,” she laughed ruefully. Here’s the thing she realized about the angel: he was Good-capital-G, arguably. But more so than that, he was kind, and compassionate, and sympathetic, and he liked making people happy. He also liked being happy and reading books and eating food, and divulging in earthly pleasures.

"I had this plan after graduation to go on a road trip across the United States. See just a few places, you know I’ve lived in Arizona for five years, and I’ve never seen the Grand Canyon? It’s stupid, I don’t even have a car anymore, mine was totaled in the car accident. I just wanted to see the world a little bit. Maybe, you know, further down the line. When the baby’s older, I can consider that old dream vacation another time.” It wasn’t a lie, it was just a pipe dream. But if she was going to spend the rest of her life raising a literally God-given baby and the future of humanity, she was going to enjoy it a little bit before the blessed thing was there. Not to mention, God had also said something about being impatient with the companions she would send Rome. And if Crowley and Aziraphale were the ones who helped her stop feeling lonely, then she definitely knew why the universe was a bit impatient.

She pretended to be utterly oblivious to the conversation going on behind her, hushed banter between the eldritch pair. Aziraphale persisted, Aziraphale fluttered his eyelashes, Crowley - who was already half-sold - caved as if it was an enormous burden on his part.

“Where did you want to go, my dear?” Aziraphale asked Rome.

“Really, you don’t have to,” Rome insisted. “You’ve already done so much.”

“Well, to be honest, perhaps Crowley and I could use a vacation as well. We’ve spent far too much time in Europe in the modern age, we might as well see America. No time like the present, right Crowley?” Aziraphale inquired brightly. Crowley grumbled in agreement. “So, where did you want to go?”

* * *

[1] 1480

[2] Their previous topic happened to be a debate from the early eighteenth century that Crowley suddenly had a new argument for, and so they resumed it as if three centuries hadn’t passed.

[3] It is prudent to know that it would mean something very different and nearly offensive if Beelzebub referred to Gabriel as “archangel Gabriel.” Gabriel was an Archangel and a cherub, not an archangel.

[4] She had, in fact, lost consciousness moments before he stole the Declaration of Independence.

[5] It, of course, was not written like so. Rome’s actual email was polite, uncontroversial, and promptly ignored by the sheer majority of her family. Only her mother considered secretly watching the link without her husband knowing, and even then, the guilt of the thought of betraying her spouse kept her from following up on that idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROAD TRIP!
> 
> Thank you for reading! I really hope that you enjoyed! Let me know what your thoughts are if you're so inclined. As always, I really appreciate feedback in its many forms. I appreciate all of your kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions. Of course, I adore comments and talking to you all. Thank you again! Until the next one!


	10. I'm So Full Of Love I Could Barely Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! A few notes for this chapter:  
> \- Somewhat graphic references to how gory childbirth can be? Just a warning there, general medical themes.  
> \- A sort-of realistic depiction of a panic attack, also.  
> \- I had a lot of fun writing this one.  
> \- There's some self-indulgence here (some, I say, as I write fanfiction). Let's be honest. I want a hug from Aziraphale. He's just so... friend shaped.

PREGNANCY COULD HAVE been a lot worse. Objectively, Rome had reasonably manageable symptoms. Her breasts definitely ached from rapid growth. It was just for the first time in her life she was incredibly aware and cognizant of their existence. Often, one doesn’t focus or ponder on the state of a body part, like their arm, nose, or bosom, unless that part is in pain. Now, however, Rome felt like a poorly-written female protagonist. One written by a man who wanted to describe the shape, color, and movement of her breasts and so made the woman in question always thinking about them. Well, Rome was still thinking about them, and her thoughts were “my fat sacks hurt, and my bra is too small” and little else. Rome’s nausea was persistent, but she only threw up when she had an empty stomach, so she often found herself grazing on dry toast, crackers, fruit, and nuts, and she lived off of ginger-ale and lemonade. She could eat meals, but sometimes she would get three bites into something and suddenly be completely averse to it like a switch flicked. Any smell could set off or extinguish her appetite, even things like soap and toothpaste. The final major symptom of Rome’s was her fatigue. She was always tired, and it didn’t help that she only slept with interspaced naps because she had nightmares of global suffering every time that she closed her eyes. She could get to about three or four hours at a time before needing to wake up and think about anything else. Really, her state wasn’t ideal for something like a cross-country road trip, but Rome had already manipulated two supernatural entities into chauffeuring her across the United States, and she wasn’t about to scrap that hard work now because she was always a bit behind on rest.

Her final month of rent was paid. She donated most of her books except for her beloved favorites. She sold the few pieces of furniture that weren’t made of miscellaneous objects, and she reduced her entire closet down to two suitcases. The last thing left for her to do in Tucson was the doctor’s appointment she had scheduled two weeks prior for her first-trimester check-up. She still didn’t have insurance, but now she had an angel and a demon who were more than happy to miracle her bills to mysteriously cease to exist.[1] Of course, Crowley and Aziraphale accompanied her out of their prophesized responsibility to protect her, even though she doubted she was in danger, nothing of worry had happened yet. So, Rome sat in the waiting room, Aziraphale to her right and Crowley to her left, filling out a form. Aziraphale had grabbed one of each maternity pamphlet available and was engrossed in one about prenatal nutrition. Crowley was playing _Candy Crush_ on his phone.

“Rosemarie Lowell?” The nurse called. Rome rose to her feet, Crowley and Aziraphale standing as well, towering behind her. “Er… which one of you is the father?”

“Gluh-” Crowley began, having nothing coherent to say.

“Well, um, technically,” Aziraphale tried to explain but had no idea what to say.

“Both of them. Genetically, no clue, it was a mixed sample used for fertilization,” Rome declared, a lie constructing itself in her mind. Aziraphale and Crowley tried not to react as though they were dramatically shocked by her quick lie. She may or may not have combined some soap opera premises in her head, knowing she needed an explanation beyond being impregnated by a deity that would be reasonable.

“So, you were impregnated via artificial insemination?” The nurse asked. “We don’t have any records on file.”

“We used a different clinic.”

“What happened to the fertility clinic you were using?”

Rome dropped her voice to a whisper, sounding embarrassed and secretive, “Remember that scandal in the news of that Doctor in Phoenix using his own genetic material on patients?[2] We never saw him, but the whole clinic was shut down after the public outcry, and-”

“Oh, yes,” The nurse made a face. “Terrible, what that man did. So, you haven’t been able to get your old medical files?”

“Unfortunately,” Rome said. “I filled out as much as I could on the form. I know the date of the procedure, three weeks later, I had a positive at-home test, and then with all the chaos this was the first time I could get a proper appointment.”

“Alright, well, we’ll do a basic workup and some blood tests,” The nurse said. “HCG levels, Rh factor, those sorts of things. Then we’ll need a medical history from all of the parents. I assume you already did genetic work-ups before the insemination? Any concerns for genetic disorders?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Rome said, suddenly feeling a little lost. Was there a possibility that the child would have genetic disorders? What if they did the ultrasound and the blueberry-sized embryo was T-posing?

“Did you have a pap smear recently to check for sexually transmitted infections?” the nurse asked. “I assume the clinic performed one, but if you’ve been sexually active since-”

“No need for a pap smear,” Rome said. “We’re just here for the blood workup, ultrasound, and consultation.” The nurse nodded and finally brought them to the examination room.

“We’ll take the blood sample now, and then if your bladder is full, we can get started right away on the transabdominal ultrasound.”

“My bladder is _always_ full,” Rome insisted. The nurse laughed.

“Sit here, for me, please,” the nurse said. Rome sat down. Her blood pressure and temperature were taken. Then the nurse took a blood kit out of one of the drawers. “You’re alright with needles?”

“Definitely,” Rome said. The nurse nodded and made quick work of filling up one of the vials from the blood. Rome winced when the needle first went in but seemed utterly nonplussed by the little bottle filling up with her dark red blood. She glanced at Aziraphale and Crowley, standing on the other end of the room, peering cautiously at the blood being taken from her arm. “Are you two _squeamish_?”

“No!” Crowley exclaimed, as if the insinuation that he had a problem with blood, especially in such a sterile and clinical environment, was a great offense.

“Well,” Aziraphale began. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really,” Rome said. “Now if you want to know what’ll be bloody and painful, will be in seven months or so when the little thing squirts out of me.” The nurse snorted. She had finished taking out the blood and was putting a plaster and a pad of gauze on the small pinprick inside Rome’s elbow. She left the room.

“Well, childbirth is magical,” Aziraphale attempted to say with a reassuring smile.

“It’s also bloody, and there’s lots of screaming, and I’m likely to shit in the process if I’m lucky, as opposed to something like my perineum ripping open from vagina to anus,” Rome reminded them. Aziraphale’s reassurance faded to concern, while Crowley looked like he would rather throw himself into a burning vat of sulfur again to avoid the conversation. “Oh, don’t act like this ain’t your fault.”

“I didn’t knock you up!” Crowley exclaimed. “That’s a lie _you_ came up with. A stupid one, at that! Aziraphale and I aren’t-”

“Well, I didn’t see either of you geniuses coming up with anything better, did I?” Rome inquired. “Someone had to say something reasonable about why I’m a pregnant virgin being followed around by two men-shaped entities. As for your fault, _Original Sin_.”

“Oh, she has a point, Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley hissed at the pair of them in response. Then, he rambled defensively, “How was I supposed to know that making Eve eat an apple would make it gory? I was just sprinkling a little bit of doubt, you know, what’d that tree of knowledge have to say in its apples that the Almighty doesn’t want you to know? I didn’t know they’d be kicked out of Eden and forced to scream and shit every time they multiplied. Really, it was an overreaction for the first offense.”

Rome was laughing. Not laughing _at_ anything, in particular, but just laughing. Sometimes it was hard for her to come to terms with her new reality, and whenever she was confronted with it, she couldn’t help but laugh. Aziraphale was quite bemused,[3] and Crowley looked vaguely insulted “Oh, come on, no need to get your feathers ruffled.[4] Sure, childbirth ain’t the most pleasant thing in creation, but civilization and culture and science and philosophy ain’t that bad all things considered, it all balances itself out in the end I suppose. Besides, it wouldn’t make sense if childbirth only a consequence of the fall of man because most other species either have physical labor. What’s the alternative, egg-laying? How’s that apply to other creatures, then? I don’t think a platypus is more God-fearing than a squirrel, so it’s probably some dumb thing folks with penises made up when they were horrified by the natural state of things and inclined to blame those with wombs rather than give them their proper dues. Scripture was written by men, after all.”

Crowley and Aziraphale blinked, both of them a little surprised. Crowley began, “When you mentioned civilization, you didn’t actually mean-”

“I’m not stroking your ego, you can do that yourself, preferably in private” Rome quipped in response with good spirits. It was a joke, and Crowley could tell. “But I think Ingersoll was right about some things.” Rome did not have a moment to explain what Ingersoll was right about, for at that moment the doctor came in, and the rest of the medical appointment proceeded with the slight awkwardness of the assumed circumstances of relations. Rome was good at redirecting the chatty obstetrician from good wishes of parenthood to highlights of the medical reason for being there. Rome was good at asking questions and changing topics, and she used her entire repertoire to keep the doctor talking about nutrition, symptoms, development, and every single question Rome had come up within the last few weeks after reading her well-worn _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ and a few other internet articles and mommy forums. The next stage was the ultrasound. Rome reclined and tugged her waistband further down her hips, so they clung beneath the mound of flesh at the bottom of her belly and tugged her shirt up above the navel. The doctor made a preliminary warning of cold gel, and suddenly a transducer wand was rubbing and pressing into the soft flesh above Rome’s hips, an image appearing onscreen. It was black, with white and grey forming a positive image.

“There’s your baby,” The doctor said, pointing to a cashew-shaped blur on the screen. “There, you can see the gestational sac around them,” her pinkie indicated a narrow line encircling the child. “They’re about a centimeter long from head to toe. About the size of a blueberry. Good placement and positioning, really, everything looks healthy. Now, you indicated the date of conception, so, I assume from there we’re looking at a due date in late December, right around Christmas.[5]”

Rome couldn’t help herself, she burst out laughing. The doctor seemed a little alarmed, and the image warbled with the contractions of Rome’s laughter. She managed to sober quickly, so the doctor wasn’t too concerned, and then played it off explaining that it was funny because this was a pregnancy of sexless conception and she was technically a virgin. The doctor also found it in good humor, not realizing how significant the allusion indeed was. The doctor continued to explain things to Rome on the ultrasound, the bloodwork came back spotless, and then the question was asked, “Do you want to hear the heartbeat?”

“Yes,” Rome said after a moment’s pause. She was starting to realize, on the precipice of it, really, that she was pregnant with a person. Before it was more of a concept, a vague predilection of the future more so than a genuine reality. Now, she was seeing the little bean-shaped embryo that was living and growing inside her, about to hear it’s the heartbeat. The doctor adjusted some dials, and the transducer and the thrumming sound filled the air. Many women would well up with tears of joy. Rome just felt like she couldn’t breathe. She was inhaling, filling up, drawing in breath, but she wasn’t exhaling. She couldn’t exhale.[6] She read enough books that the rest of the appointment was a rehearsed performance. She accepted photographs of the sonogram, she informed the receptionist her follow-up appointments would be arranged in England because she would be having the baby there, and she requested physical copies of everything from the check-up for when she finally found an obstetrician overseas.

She said she had to go to the bathroom, finally able to empty her bladder after the ultrasound, and once she was in the solace of the single-stalled beige-tiled bathroom that smelled like industrial cleaning products and chemical floral air freshener, Rome collapsed on the toilet, peed, and sobbed. She still didn’t exhale, but the catharsis helped a little bit. It was a reality now, to her. In seven months, there would be a human being, and it was her job to look after it and raise it. Forget all the crap about God, that was the most terrifying part. What example did she have for parenthood? An abusive father and a mentally ill mother? A family that was built on lies of perfection and aesthetics? Years of being told happiness was a sin, self-destruction was faith, and she would never deserve the love she had? A two-story colonial at the end of a cul-de-sac that had decorative rugs to cover where blood had soaked into the carpet? How was she supposed to take care of another human, least of all what was probably the most essential human in two thousand years? She was a creature of doubt, but especially doubt in herself. And it kept building up inside her with every breath in, her lungs filling with doubt. The uncertainty was thick and viscous like tar, and she was drowning in it. Breathing in, expanding, growing until she burst, and never, ever exhaling. She wanted so badly to exhale, but she couldn’t give out the smallest sigh. There was no relief and no reprieve. The world was too bright, spinning all the while. It must have been habit that made her finish her bathroom routine, wipe the red from her eyes, and find her way back to where Crowley and Aziraphale were standing outside the Bentley, chatting amicably about something.

“Rome, my dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, just, you know, that was emotional,” Rome said brusquely, shortly, an obviously insincere reply. Aziraphale frowned at her with severe concern. It wasn’t the “what-did-you-do?” concern she was used to. The “how-did-you-fuck-up-this-time?” concern. It was a genuine concern. It was “I-can-tell-that-something-is-bothering-you-and-I-want-to-help” concern. And it wasn’t just polite concern, it was so honest and overwhelming, the angel was irradiating it in waves. Is this what love was supposed to be? Not the love that Rome was used to, the love of someone who wanted you to be something else, or the love so pure and holy and perfect that it was cold and empty. This was not the love of indifference. Was this the love of friends? Of family? Was it just something so simple as seeing someone in pain and wanting to make them the slightest bit better, a sliver happier, whatever the cost? Was this what it felt to be like on the receiving end of unconditional kindness and love? The same love Rome always tried to give because she had never been given. Rome was crying, she realized desperately with a flood of embarrassment. She was standing in a parking lot of a multiplex, with gynecologists and lawyers and accountants, and she was crying silently, tears running freely down her cheeks and her lip wobbling. She’d never felt this before, she’d never received, if you asked her family, she never earned it. “I’m scared,” she finally admitted in a rough and broken voice, taking off the helmet of that emotional armor of hers for the first time in her life. And with the helmet gone, she swore the world became a little brighter.

Aziraphale looked at her with that concern, care, and sympathy that made her heart ache. He carefully opened his arms, not stepping forward, not making any move to her, but in a silent invitation. And as starved as she was for a semblance of comfort and assurance, she took the step forward, and she hugged the angel. He was taller than her by about a head, as Rome Lowell was absolutely a short woman. Her face burrowed into his shoulder, bone, and muscle padded by smooth flesh and soft clothes, so it was like sinking into a firm pillow. There was a gentle hand cradling the back of her head. An arm was wrapped around the middle of her back. She wrapped her arms around his round middle, and she gripped the soft and warm body like a lifeline. He smelled like petrichor and sunshine, and he must have been wearing delicately musky cologne. She reveled in the feeling of comfort and warmth. Hugging an angel was an extraordinary experience.[7] Rome wondered distantly the last time she had been embraced. She couldn’t remember. Or maybe, this was just the best hug in all of creation, and all inferior hugs suddenly ceased to exist.[8] Aziraphale stroked her hair, and she let out a harsh sob, and a glorious exhale.

“There, there, my dear,” He said gently. He held her until she stopped shuddering with tears, whispering soothing assurances all the while. When Rome peeled away, and the embrace ended, Aziraphale handed her a white handkerchief for her to clean up her face and made the wet spot on his chest disappear with a snap.

“Thank you, ‘Ziraphale,” she said. “I swear, you’re sweeter than spun sugar.”

“Oh, how kind of you to say,” he said with a smile. “Are you alright?”

“I reckon I will be,” she said, her smile was small encouraging. “Let’s hit the road.”

* * *

A COMMON MISCONCEPTION is that Heaven is paradise. When precisely, this thought was perceived because Heaven is perfect, or rather, as objectively perfect as any place. It is always clean and immaculate, with white and pale surfaces, and tall glass windows, the outside blinding radiance. Nothing wears away, there’s always far too much space, and everything glimmers and gleams so brightly a human would forever be squinting around the place like an idiot. But perfection and paradise are entirely different concepts when it really comes down to it. Perfection is absolute, unchanging, unyielding. It’s a flawless diamond, cold and hard. Paradise is an experience, and what more, it is a subjective experience. To some, it could be a garden, lush and verdant with full, fragrant blossoms. To others, it could be a cottage by the edge of the sea, where waves lapped at the shore, and the air smelled like salt spray. It could be a neon city of chrome and color, noise beating like a heart as the urban sprawl is just as lively.

It was the nature of being raised in Heaven to seek out that same unyielding, unchanging, and unmarred aesthetic in the general way of life. Angels subscribed quite heavily the thought that their form: physical and metaphysical, was a temple. And like Heaven, this temple should be spotless, bright, and empty. Like diamonds or marble or silver, angels were cold, hard, bright, stunning, radiant, and eternal.[9] Angels weren’t just physically and metaphysically like that, they also took these ideals to their emotional and mental beings as well. Angels were beings of love, but they needed it to be perfect love, and so their love was like their bodies, metal, and stone. Angels had holy love, which could be considered holier-than-thou love, the sort of love that made them want what they had absolute faith was best for the things that they loved, which was the same perfection they sought. Angels had a heavenly love, so lofty that it was seen or said rather than felt and known. Because of this, some things were known about angels and heaven. The vastness of Heaven was for a reason, as angels always existed with significant space between them, worried the mingling of physical or metaphysical forms could cause tarnish. Likewise, there was an emotional and mental distance between angels out of the same concern. Angels only touched other angels whenever absolutely necessary. When another angel was emotionally compromised was never necessary, that was the fault of an angel and an act of imperfection to not always be serene and unaffected. Angels ought to be perfect, that was one of the unavoidable all-but-written things that all angels knew.

Aziraphale wasn’t a perfect angel. He was a very, very human angel.[10] He was not metal and stone, he was sugar and stuffing. He was warm and soft. But he was radiant, bright, stunning, and ethereal. It just wasn’t the harsh grating light of silver and diamonds, it wasn’t the sort of light that made one squint and turn away. Aziraphale was bright like warm sunlight, he was bright like a crackling campfire. He was delicate, friendly, and comforting. He didn’t exist in the vast emptiness, his cozy and somewhat musty bookshop proved that, as did his love for soft clothes and lumpy tartan couches and hot cocoa. So, Crowley really should have known that Aziraphale was probably the sort of beautiful angel, with the kindness and compassion to give away his flaming sword to Adam and Eve, who would comfort a crying pregnant woman. And, further, he should have known an angel who was such an unashamed sensualist, loving food and comfort, shouldn’t have had the same heavenly aversion to tarnishing the form with touch. Crowley had even been touched by Aziraphale before. Usually they were just unavoidable and arguably necessary touches, Aziraphale throwing an arm out to stop Crowley from getting discorporated from stepping into traffic, their hands brushing as they passed a bottle of wine back and forth, when they shook on The Arrangement and then again on co-raising the Antichrist, once Aziraphale even grabbed Crowley by the forearm to pull him to safety at Pompeii on _that_ day. Of course, the most intimate touch Crowley had ever received from Aziraphale he could subscribe to that angelic necessity, they clasped hands to transfer physical forms, an act that saved their very existences not a year ago. Aziraphale never touched him accidentally, not in six thousand years. He had never touched him for any reason that didn’t have some higher need. So, Aziraphale had most definitely never embraced Crowley, the way he embraced the human and stroked her hair while she was crying, feeling human vulnerabilities.

It wasn’t like Crowley wanted to be embraced, thought Crowley.[11] He was just surprised to see Aziraphale touching a human, no not just touching a human, embracing and reassuring a human in a hug. There was no reason he should be surprised that Aziraphale would touch a human to be nice to them, Aziraphale liked to be kind to humans. It’s not like this was an accidental touch, it was done with intention, and keeping the Mother of Christ happy could even be considered a necessity to keep her safe, safeguarding her emotional wellbeing. So, really, there was absolutely no reason why, four hours after he had seen angel and mother hug, Crowley was still thinking about it and rationalizing what was rational. It was angelic, of course, to help a young pregnant woman who was afraid and overwhelmed. And of course, it was very much like Aziraphale to do it with compassion and kindness instead of just a miracle to change her emotional state. Crowley really understood why Aziraphale had hugged the human and yet, he was still thinking about it. Why did he think about it? Did it bother him? Maybe it did bother him, but why would it bother him? It wasn’t like he wanted Aziraphale to hug him and stroke his hair, Crowley didn’t like to be touched, of that he was quite confident.

Heaven is empty, vast, and perfect. Hell, by nature, is, therefore, the opposite. Everything is cramped together, there are halls and corridors and entire rooms that aren’t large enough for two beings to exist comfortably, and yet they are occupied by five. Hell is dark and stuffy. Supposedly it is hot, the hellfire and burning vats of sulfur dotted around the place definitely increase the ambient heat, but that’s not the most oppressive part about the atmosphere. Crowley was cold-blooded, and therefore both could handle and appreciated the heat. No, the worst part about the heat his how present it is, how heavy the air is, how walking through Hell is like fighting through boiling stew. And even then, the worst part of being in Hell are the creatures that occupy it. You can’t go through Hell without being touched, it’s too small. Maybe the touching would be manageable, borderline tolerable, if it was just the annoying brushing of bodies in the sweltering heat. Here’s the thing about Hell, it’s a horrible place, shocking, I know. Dante Alighieri wasn’t wholly incorrect to say that there was a sort of stratification in Hell, but he certainly took his artistic liberties. There weren’t nine circles of Hell, mostly because the shape of Hell is labyrinthian chaos that doesn’t necessarily subscribe to traditional geometry.

Furthermore, Hell is not nearly organized enough to really stratify by sin and have deserving punishments. If Heaven is a soulless Fortune 500 company of endless paperwork, Hell is a convenience store with needles in the parking lot, perpetually on the graveyard shift. Hell is as simple as this: all the people who didn’t wind up in Heaven locked in an infinite underground of grime, and motivated to torture each other. It’s quite literally a dog-eat-dog realm, with all the hell hounds, but also metaphorically, as you either torture or get tortured. For demons, they’re not exempt from this system, they’re equally vulnerable to every back alley and dark closet in Hell, where the unspeakable things happen, they’re just better at being the punishers, the suffering of the fall not quite comparable to the sadism of Hell. If a demon is successful at tempting on Earth, there are certain areas of Hell where there is unspoken respect, if they’ve brought enough souls downstairs it functions as protection from the factions of horror. So, with all of this in perspective, who could be surprised that Crowley hated to be touched? The first touch he had known was being dragged through molten sulfur and hellfire like a baptismal introduction to the ranks of Satan.

And yet, there was an occasional absence he felt when he saw humans touching. It was a funny feeling, annoying and unneeded, unbecoming of a demon. But a lot of what Crowley did and thought and felt was unbecoming of a demon. It was ridiculous because he knew he didn’t like being touched. Demons never touched accidentally, much like angels, and so when a demon touched you, they did it in such a way you were guaranteed to feel it afterward. Whenever he was touched by a human, on the rare occasion a human managed to touch him, or society made it necessary to fit in, it made his skin crawl, but at least it was fleeting.[12] When the angels had dragged him off in Aziraphale’s form, his (Aziraphale’s) arms were sore for a few moments after he was restrained in Heaven, not unlike the touch of demons, it was intentionally memorable by force. Everything that Crowley knew established quite well that he hadn’t any interest in being touched. At best, it was fleeting discomfort, and at worst, it was lingering pain. And yet, Crowley saw a human child hugging their mother, a couple holding hands while walking down the street, a stranger helping another that fell, and something was missing. Like he was suddenly aware of an organ, his human-shaped physical form was supposed to have, but he couldn’t possibly say where it was or what it looked like.

He was, of course, avoiding in his train of thought how it felt to be touched by Aziraphale, because that shifted his entire paradigm, and he didn’t like having his paradigm shifted when it was carefully constructed so he could cope. Of course, what he was actively not thinking about was the fact that Aziraphale’s touch wasn’t discomfort or pain, although it often did linger. An arm to stop him from stepping into danger left a delicate pressure, brushes of fingers exchanging something set his skin crackling alight, that hand on his bicep made him check to see he hadn’t been marked by Aziraphale’s holiness because he felt it hours after the ash had settled, and of course when he had touched Aziraphale’s hand to shift forms he flexed and wiggled his fingers, and still there was a warm handprint fused to his palm. The other thing he was ignoring with considerable determination was when he had seen Aziraphale pull that human woman into a comforting embrace, the empty space in his body burned, it was a cavity, an abyss, an inky vacuum void drawing everything in until it sought what it needed. If Crowley had considered these two thoughts simultaneously, he might have been intelligent enough to realize that he wouldn’t dislike being touched by Aziraphale under the right, intentional circumstances. Under the excessive circumstances. Under the fortuitous circumstances. But this was not the case, and so Crowley quietly fumed and contemplated an incomplete equation for four hours after they left Tucson.

“Hey, I need to pee again,” Rome announced.

“Again?” Crowley exclaimed. “You went, what? Two hours ago!”

“I drank an entire bottle of lemonade, and I’m pregnant, so there’s less room inside me. I’m growing kidneys that aren’t even mine! Take the next exit there’s a rest stop, or I will piss myself back here, and you can see how good you are at bibbity-bobbity-booing that.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I checked the map on my phone, there’s a Walmart in like five miles. Maybe we could even get stuff for a picnic at the Grand Canyon.”

“A picnic sounds lovely, Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley sighed, two against one,[13] he might as well just do what the human wanted. When had the Serpent of Eden and Architect of Original Sin turned into the supervisor of a pregnant philosopher reliving her childhood and an excitable angel trying to experience modern America? He probably could have determined an exact date if he thought about it, but he just focused on finding the Walmart’s whereabouts.

“Have you guys ever had smores?” Rome asked.

“Smores?” Aziraphale inquired.

“They’re food, a sort of dessert you make when you go camping. They’re really easy to make, you just need graham crackers, marshmallows, chocolate, and fire.”

“We’re camping?” Crowley asked with a sigh.

“Not camping-camping, we don’t have to sleep there. But I did want to see the Grand Canyon at night,” Rome said. “There’s no light pollution, and I’ve never seen the full night sky. It’s on the bucket list, or I suppose because I’m doing this all before the baby’s here bassinet list.”

“And you like smores,” Crowley added.

“Nobody doesn’t like smores,” Rome insisted.

“You could have just said ‘everyone likes smores’ there’s no need for the double negative,” Crowley said.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, and then he decided to promptly exit this conversation and let the Demon and his desire to be contrary go at odds with the Human and her desire to win witticisms. In the two weeks they had known Rome, this occasionally turned into a back-and-forth between the two that left Aziraphale mostly amused. He was glad to see that Crowley being Crowley didn’t offend Rome in the slightest. If anything, she enjoyed Crowley’s Crowley-ness, she kept up with it as if it wasn’t exhausting. It would have been difficult if he was tasked spending all this time mediating the two so Rome didn’t run away screaming. Everything was excellent, Aziraphale believed. However, much like Crowley ignoring the Aziraphale-shaped problem he had with touch, Aziraphale was ignoring something Crowley-shaped as well. It was that Aziraphale was the only person he had ever known to really appreciate and handle Crowley’s Crowley-ness. Before, most of Crowley’s recalcitrance was focused on Aziraphale. This led to some wonderfully stimulating debates, both with and without alcohol. Now, of course, Crowley seemed to have a new verbal sparring partner, and she did things that kept her up with Crowley in a way that Aziraphale had spent years learning to do. She was completely unfazed at some of Crowley’s horrible suggestions or outlandish arguments, which were often hyperbolic or speculative, but it had taken Aziraphale centuries to realize when Crowley was being melodramatically facetious and when he was genuine. Not only did Rome understand immediately the difference between Crowley being genuine and Crowley being facetious, but when it was the latter, she matched him point-for-point where Aziraphale would have balked.

“Oh, so you’re a member of the grammar police now? You, who can barely form coherent sentences without a half-dozen odd noises sprinkled in between?” Rome asked.

Crowley’s immediate response was to stutter over a reaction like a broken record player (“Ngk, gluh, bruh, ugh.”) until he closed his mouth and glared at her in the rearview mirror.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with what I said.” Rome sniffed primly, sounding like a southern Belle defending her honor. “You understood me, didn’t you?”

“Not without great intelligent deductions on my part. And it’s ‘isn’t,’ not ‘ain’t,’” Crowley insisted.

“'Ain’t’ is an informal contraction in American English,” Rome snapped. “It’s in most dictionaries! It _ain’t_ like I’m using it in an academic paper.”

“It’s a made-up word!”

“ _All_ words are made up, you should know, you’re older than most of them! Turn right!”

“Why?!”

“WALMART!” At her screech, Crowley wrenched hard on the wheel to make the exit. Aziraphale grabbed the inside of the cabin for his dear corporation as he lurched. Rome put one hand on her stomach and leaned with the car’s sudden jostling, somehow smoothly adjusting to the pull and push of the inside movements. “Careful, honey, this seat belt digs too hard into my nethers, and there’s no telling what’ll come out of me.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley said dismissively.

“Get back here and make me, we’ll see which one of us ends up black and blue,” Rome said, but she said it with defeat and reclined in the back seat in surrender in spite of her fighting words. Once they found a place to park, she introduced Angel and Demon to Walmart, after she relieved herself, of course. They stocked up on what she insisted were necessary picnic supplies, and it was only an hour more to the Grand Canyon. The first stop of many on this even grander adventure.

* * *

[1] Aziraphale saw it as an act of kindness and charity. Meanwhile, Crowley saw it as an act of illicit disobedience. Neither of them had incorrect interpretations of their actions.

[2] There was no story of a doctor in Phoenix. But it was the sort of false circumstance that had been in the news long enough ago any false details would seem reasonable but unrecallable, as well as being sufficiently salacious that the nurse wanted the circumstances to be real and local for the simple fact of adjacency to a scandal.

[3] Or was it amused? It was actually some combination of bemusement and amusement, he was delightfully astounded.

[4] Although Rome didn’t realize it at the time, that was the first time she ever used that phrase in the direction of someone who could, in fact, get their feathers ruffled.

[5] The official, recorded due-date that the doctor would later write was December 23rd, but Rome realized as soon as the words “right around Christmas” were uttered that she might as well rent a manger on the 25th and hope Santa brings her a bucket of boiling water and an epidural.

[6] She wasn’t having a literal respiratory event, if she did, the doctor would have intervened. Instead, the feeling of inhaling without ever being able to exhale was a figurative one, the best way to describe the coming panic and fear that was soon flooding through Rome.

[7] This was actually not true. Hugging any other angel would be met with polite and courteous stiffness at best. It would be as warm and pliant as hugging a marble statue. Immaculate and unfulfilling. No, hugging Aziraphale was a very extraordinary experience, and that was particular for the angel in question and nothing else.

[8] This was something that Rome told herself as a way to cope. The fact of the matter was, the last time she had been hugged was eight years ago. Sure, in the time since, there had been arms around her shoulders and pats on her back. However, a proper full-bodied hug of comfort and reassurance had been absent from her life for nearly a decade. Further, she had never been hugged while she was crying since she was a small child who couldn’t control her tears. Since about the age of four, the standard response to crying was for someone (usually her father) to tell her, “Quit your crying, Rosemarie, or I’ll give you something to really cry about.”

[9] Or rather, they _should_ be. Angels could become soft and warm. Angels could be burned and blackened. Angels could cease to exist. The only thing angels, fallen or human or not, always was, was durable.

[10] Possibly, that is what made him the most extraordinary angel. It was debatable if he was the best angel or the worst angel, but he was undoubtedly a singular angel, a loving angel, a kind angel. Every story of a warm heavenly love of an angel on earth could be traced back to Aziraphale.

[11] Crowley’s thoughts proved yet again that The Nile was not just a river in Egypt but also a homophone for the exact feeling that he was actively ignoring the presence of. 

[12] The exception to this was children. Warlock Dowling had been Crowley’s stead for about six years, and Nanny Ashtoreth had no problem patching up his wounds and holding his hand and hugging him when he needed to cry over his father’s absence and mother’s indifference. Adam Young, likewise, had not bothered Crowley when he held the boy’s hand as Satan rose and the apocalypse ended. As far back as Crowley remembered, he was comfortable around those who were arguably less intimidating: children, the elderly, and the ill.

[13] If he was honest, it was three against one. The Bentley was offended at the thought of being peed on by a spiteful pregnant woman, and he couldn’t possibly let her down like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I'm always incredibly appreciative of all of you, and I'm fond of your feedback. I love your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, and comments, and I especially adore getting to interact with you and hear your thoughts on this project of mine. So, if you could be so kind, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks again!


	11. Sit Here And Watch The Sunlight Fade (It's Getting Late)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A picnic at the Grand Canyon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Thank you for your responses to the previous chapter and continued readership. Just a few notes on this chapter:  
>  \- I've only ever been to the south rim of the Grand Canyon during daylight, so certain things here were depicted with online research, not personal experience.  
>  \- There's so much pining in this chapter. I saw this tag a while back on a different fic that said: Crowley is a Pine Tree, and that is... apt.  
>  \- There are not as many footnotes as usual, but there is a lot of action and repression. So, please assume The Almighty is munching on popcorn with the rest of us.  
>  \- I wish I were better at visual art because there are so many scenes in this chapter I adored writing the imagery of, and I want to depict it in other ways.
> 
> Okay, and now, *drumroll* without further ado: Whatever This Is.

BRIGHT ANGEL POINT Trail is about a mile long, leading from the Grand Canyon North Rim Lodge to some of the best views in the whole of the Grand Canyon. They arrived right before the park entrance for the night and parked at the lodge, then Rome led Crowley and Aziraphale to the trail she wanted to hike. All things considered at the Grand Canyon, it wasn't that hard of a hike, the whole route was paved, and in spite of the ups and downs and sheer drop-offs, it wasn’t so terrible. If someone was uncomfortable with heights or had general anxiety over the prospects of plummeting to their death, they might think differently. The trail lead, of course, to Bright Angel Point. Panoramic views of the Grand Canyon awaited anyone who reached the end of the route, the opportunity to risk livelihood scaling a tall limestone rock formation that sat at the end of the paved path. Many defaulted to the views of the concrete section, which were extraordinary. Aziraphale assumed, of course, at the end of the paved route was where Rome would be sated with her views of the Grand Canyon, and they could finally have their picnic. The sky was starting to turn orange and pink, as the sun was hanging low in the sky. The reddish-brown rock of the canyon had the hazy aureate light cast onto them, so they turned the same shades of pink and orange in the haze. The view of the vast chasm, geography highlighted in a bask of warm colors, was absolutely breathtaking. It was so beautiful, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale noticed Rome begin to scale the vast limestone rock formation that went up nearly a story above the paved path, and was right on the rim, the sheer drop on one end being a hundred feet at least. It wasn’t objectively hard to climb. There was an incline of ascending ledges which Rome hauled herself up with careful and unexperienced diligence. She rose to her full height on the mostly flat and even formation, which was perfect for standing.

“Rome?” Aziraphale inquired, whipping around.

“Up here!” she called brightly, spreading out her arms and facing the canyon. Her head was tipped back, face to the sky, and she smiled as the breeze pulled gently at her hair and clothes.

“How did you get up there?” he asked.

“I climbed,” she said. “The best view in the whole place is right here.” She sighed into the air, looking over the pink, orange, red, and gold scene before here. It was vast, and she was small. She was stunned and awestruck by the view before her.

“It’s alright, angel, she’s happy up there,” Crowley said softly.

“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale dithered. “I’m just worried, she could fall.”

“We appreciate life better the closer we are to death,” Rome said from atop her high place. She seemed to be appreciating life with an open bliss that she rarely wore, and so they let her be.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the picnic basket’s contents unpacked and assembled instantaneously. The gingham blanket[1] was laid out against the base of the enormous rock formation, on the paved lookout point with guardrails. There had not been any good wine or champagne at the store, but there was surprisingly a decent brand of cognac. Aziraphale sat upright with his back to the white rocks, while Crowley spread out, leaning on his elbow, so he wasn’t wholly reclined. They toasted and watched the sunset. Neither of them could deny that it was an excellent way to spend an evening. The pinks and oranges turned into purples and blues as the sun disappeared, and the last light of the day faded. Then, the stars came out of the inky dark sky overhead, flickering brighter as their part of the world faced away from the sun and out to the universe. After decades in modern London, the fully glorious night sky had been forgotten. The lights humans used to light their lives dimmed the ones of the heavens, but that wasn’t the case here. They were staring out at the vast Milky Way, even able to see the core, a streak of cloudlike light and dark across the center of the sky, directly above the chasm below. There was a symmetry to it: two slashes, one in the sky and one in the earth. Both massive voids, vast and magnificent, they made an angel and a demon feel small. The more they looked up at the sky, the more colors they could start to see. In the core of the galaxy, there were purples, blues, oranges, greens, and pinks deep in the cloudlike light of the swirling vortex of stars.

It was times like these that Crowley remembered what it was like to be up there in the universe. He had not spent very of his angelic time in Heaven, helping fill infinity at the Almighty’s request. Sometimes, he swore when he saw all those stars, he could feel the stardust at his fingertips, swirling together and forming something brilliant and bright. He had been good at it, too, he remembered. Unlike the others given similar assignments, he had an imagination, even in the beginning. They weren’t evenly spaced or cohesively colored, like any other angel might have done. It was times like these that Aziraphale couldn’t help but watch Crowley instead of the stars. The sea of brilliant speckles reflected off his dark glasses, the dull silvery moonlight illuminating his face. But it wasn’t just the way he looked beneath the stars that drew Aziraphale in. It was his expression. It was vulnerable and wistful, and the slightest trace of happy. It was clear what Crowley was thinking about.

“Do you ever miss it?” Aziraphale asked softly. Crowley looked away from the stars for a moment, looking at Aziraphale with a surprise like he wasn’t aware he was being watched.

“Sometimes,” Crowley admitted, turning back up at the tapestry above them.

“What is it like, up there, I mean?” Aziraphale asked.

“Huge,” Crowley said, remembering how, for as full as they made it, most of it was nothing at all. There was only so much that could be created to fill infinity. “It’s easy to feel small.”

“I can imagine,” Aziraphale murmured. “Have you ever thought about it…” Aziraphale’s question trailed away, what a stupid thing to ask, of course, Crowley had thought about going back. Hadn’t he begged Aziraphale twice to run away with him to Alpha Centauri, to occupy the space between the binary stars? Aziraphale had said no, there was an apocalypse. And if he asked now, Aziraphale would still have to say no, they had responsibilities still, didn’t they? They were on their own side now, but it wasn’t like they could run away. Crowley raised an eyebrow, wondering inquisitively what Aziraphale was going to say. Then he saw Aziraphale’s face, the soft veil of guilt and regret, and assumed correctly what the angel was thinking of.

“Going back?” Crowley provided, Aziraphale nodded as he knew he would. “Well, not since, you know.” Aziraphale did know - the apocalypse. Crowley begging Aziraphale to run away with him. _Go off together_? And Aziraphale didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. “And that was only when I thought it was the end.”

“So, no immediate plans to run away to the stars?” Aziraphale asked, asking with a feigned sort of amusement as if it would disguise how desperately he wanted the answer to be the negative.

“Not at the moment,” Crowley said, gazing at his friend with soft and gentle warmth. “I suppose you could say I’m fond of Earth and the… view from here.”

“It’s a lovely view,” Aziraphale agreed, staring back up and admiring what he had decided long ago was a testament to Crowley’s imagination. He has been surprised when Crowley first told him that when he was an angel, he had been crafting stars. The only other angels Aziraphale knew who had such an honor were the Archangels, executives of the first sphere, he couldn’t remember which ones, of course It was hard for him to imagine Gabriel making something so beautiful, Aziraphale was quite sure if Gabriel had made the stars, they would all be equally spaced, suspended in the void above like graphing paper. But now, he couldn’t help but see the stars and see where Crowley’s hand[2] had dragged through creation, leaving brilliance in its wake.

“It is,” Crowley agreed. Perhaps he was well-acquainted with the view in question, but that was not the only reason his eyes had not left Aziraphale’s face. He told himself that he liked seeing Aziraphale’s affectionate gaze to the stars because it was pride, and perhaps it was, he was a demon well-acquainted in pride. It was also easy to imagine that what was written on Aziraphale’s visage, the expression drawn out of him by Crowley’s old handiwork and the feelings it conveyed, could be applied to what Aziraphale thought of Crowley. What more, there was a comfort Crowley felt whenever he saw Aziraphale, not too different from the wistful joy from the stars, but kinder. He knew what it was, but he wouldn’t name it, not when there was nothing here to stop him from thinking about it. And so, he prayed to nothing in particular that something would prevent him from thinking about it.

“Hey!” Rome called from up above. “Do you think it’s time for smores?”

Crowley pretended to not be relieved. Aziraphale looked up, “Can you come down safely?” he worried over the pregnant-but-not-visibly-so woman.

“Yeah,” Rome said. She slid on her stomach down the side of the rock formation, feet catching on a lower ledge. Rome scaled downward by dropping to a second, slightly lower shelf. Then, five feet above the ground, she just jumped off completely, feet pounding the pavement before her entire body sunk from the force of the drop and sprung back up from the strength of her thighs. “Alright,” Rome said. “First, we need to set up the heater.”

As an open flame in a National Park on a trail was generally frowned upon, they had gotten a portable propane heater which Rome said would be sufficient at heating marshmallows, although some of the smore authenticity would be lost without the risk of having a stick with a burning mass of congealed, flaming sugar at the end of it. The heater wasn’t unpleasant, especially as the chill of a desert at night was starting to sink into the air. They sat around it, and Rome walked them through the stages of assembly for a smore. It began with the melting of a marshmallow, then the marshmallow joined a square of chocolate and two squares of graham cracker, forming a sandwich-shaped dessert treat. As the hot sugar of the pliant marshmallow softened the chocolate, the entire smore was eaten, and in spite of the variable texture, the overwhelming flavor was sweetness.

“Oh, that is simply delightful!” Aziraphale exclaimed after his first smore. “Could you hand me a marshmallow, Crowley, dear, I think I’d like to make another!”

“That’s why they’re called smores, you always want some more,” Rome said knowingly, nibbling delicately at hers. She always seemed to nibble carefully at everything she ate these days as if worried her stomach would decide her choice of food was unpleasant on a dime. There were a few exceptions, she could not constrain herself when it came to any sort of pasta or noodle, but the rest of it her eating was done like a hesitant chipmunk. Crowley ate his smore slowly as well because although they did taste good, he wanted to wait until Aziraphale had as many as he desired. As he waited, the chocolate slowly melted, and the marshmallow started to disintegrate. He finally finished his first smore, feeling quite proud that none of the desserts had stained his fingers. They didn’t have any napkins, after all, a grave oversight of the short and overwhelming trip to the superstore.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently. “You have-” Aziraphale then motioned to his own mouth, or rather the corner of it, with his signet ring-clad pinkie finger.

Crowley blinked, a few different trains of meaning colliding in his mind. He had a mouth, he had something on his mouth, he had a finger, he had something on his finger, he had something, Aziraphale had said he had something. He licked his lips and caught a taste of chocolate at the corner of his bottom lip. Aziraphale blinked at him, and then said, “No, you didn’t get it all, here.” The next procession of events somehow seemed to defy the laws of space and time, as they happened incredibly quickly and tortuously slowly all at once. Aziraphale reached forward, leaning slightly to where Crowley sat, his hand coming up to Crowley’s face. His hand was curled into a loose fist, except for his thumb, which stood out and upright. This thumb moved closer and closer to Crowley, who stayed stalk still, frozen like a deer hoping no movement would allow the predator to pass. And then, Aziraphale touched Crowley. It was a gentle touch at first, the pad of his thumb resting at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley didn’t jerk away. He stayed completely still, as he was incapable of moving. It was a tremendous feat that he was still breathing, and his heart still beating.

Carefully, Aziraphale swept the pad of his thumb beneath Crowley’s lips, the tip of the pad running along the ridge of the bottom lip. The motion was made with a touch of pressure, Crowley felt his skin tugging along with Aziraphale’s thumb like it hoped to remain affixed for eternity. At about the midline of the space below his lip, Aziraphale’s thumb parted with Crowley’s face, drawing away a fraction and then all the way. The pad was now streaked with chocolate, Crowley observed as the hand drew from Crowley’s mouth to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale’s thumb up to the first knuckle disappeared from view as he closed his lips around it. A moment later, the thumb reappeared, bereft of chocolate. It took Crowley a moment of staring and contemplation to properly comprehend what had happened. Aziraphale had used his thumb to wipe chocolate from Crowley’s face and then used his mouth to clean the chocolate off his thumb. The moment of paradoxical time flow had ended, but Crowley still felt like he was dawdling, and the section of skin below his lip that Aziraphale had touched and then tasted had never existed before with such scrutiny.

“Do you want another?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley couldn’t verbalize a response. He didn’t think he would survive another- oh, wait, Aziraphale was holding up the bag of marshmallows. There was a chance if Crowley had a second smore and repeated the previous process, that he would have another stain of chocolate on his face Aziraphale might clean up. The thought of that happening, when Crowley was still on the dizzying confusion of the first exchange, was too overwhelming to pursue.

“Better not,” Crowley managed to say.

Aziraphale shrugged in a very “suit yourself” way and fixed himself the necessary ingredients for what must have been his fourth smore. Once he had assembled the treat, he started to eat it, and Crowley couldn’t watch the angel’s mouth anymore, it was unbearable. He looked away, to the human. The human was looking at him. Her face was blank, her expression relaxed. And then, so quickly that it could have been a trick of the light, a corner of her mouth quirked in a half-smile, and she winked. The change in her expression was gone as quickly as it came, so flitting that Crowley didn’t know what to think of it. Cognac, they had a bottle of brandy, Crowley needed cognac. He had nursed one tumbler of it for this entire picnic, and now he needed the remaining half-bottle more than he needed air. Why had they only bought one bottle of liquor? Some stupid thought that if they got too drunk, they’d plummet off the edge of the Grand Canyon? Now, that thought seemed incredibly appealing, far more appealing than confrontation.

Crowley finished off the cognac, getting a healthy buzz by the final drop, but not enough inebriation to sate him. Aziraphale finished off the smores, and Rome curled up at the edge of the picnic blanket.

“I think she’s asleep,” Aziraphale said. Rome’s eyes were closed, her expression relaxed, but her body was stiff and curled up on herself.

“She’s also cold,” Crowley said.

“Oh, we should have brought more blankets. We should have known the human would have fallen asleep,” Aziraphale sighed. He suddenly stood up and very carefully slipped off his khaki-colored coat, draping it over Rome’s form with fondness. He then moved the heater slightly closer to her.

“You like her,” Crowley stated.

“I’m an angel, I like all humans,” Aziraphale insisted.

“No, you love all humans with that divine love. You _like_ her,” Crowley said. Aziraphale shrugged in a silent concession. “Why?”

“Why do I like her?” Aziraphale asked. The immediate answer was a comparison he really wasn’t in the mood to defend, and it was this: Rome reminded Aziraphale of Crowley. But to tell Crowley that would be to say blatantly that Aziraphale liked Crowley. Which he did – and he hoped Crowley knew it – but there was something about the thought of confession to such devotion that was disarming. An old echo of danger and preservation, perhaps. So, he gave some of the reasons why the two were similar without saying outright the similarities he saw, “She’s clever.”

“For a human.”

“I think she’s clever, period,” Aziraphale said. She was undoubtedly brighter than most angels in his book. “Perhaps deceptively. And she’s amusing, you have to admit.”

“And she’s nice?” Crowley guessed. “Virtuous? Loving?”

“Yes, I suppose she can be,” Aziraphale said. “Also, irreverent, but charmingly so. She’s not perfect.”

“No, not like Mary. But, to be fair, it’s quite hard for a fourteen year-old-girl in 1 B.C. Nazareth to rack up a lot of sins,” Crowley said.

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale insisted. “Many said Mary was immaculate. I suppose I expected the sort of vessel which was deeply religious and God-fearing and striving for perfection, the sort of woman Heaven would choose. But Heaven didn’t choose Rome, The Almighty did, and Rome is, well, human. And she’s proven herself to be more than a vessel. So, I like her, as a person. And I also like what I hope she represents.”

“Which is what?” Crowley asked.

“That the Almighty’s placed her faith in humanity by literally placing her essence in a very human, er, human,” Aziraphale said. “I won’t pretend to know what the Almighty has planned. It is, after all-”

“Ineffable,” Crowley completed with a resigned sigh. “Yes, you’ve said.”

“You don’t _dislike_ her, do you, Crowley?” Aziraphale wondered aloud.

“I- well-” Crowley stumbled over his words for a moment, “She’s not the worst human I’ve come across.”

“I should hope not,” Aziraphale said. “Knowing the sorts that we’ve come across.”

“She’s, well, I suppose you've got a point. She’s not what I was expecting,” Crowley said. He was honestly expecting a bit like what Aziraphale had described: a human who emulated Heaven. All self-righteous in her piety who strived for mortal perfection, sinless and spotless and more annoying than anything. But Rome wasn’t Heaven incarnate, or a shoddy attempt at it. And he never thought she would be Hellish, although she certainly could be wicked.[3] She was – and Crowley suddenly remembered Aziraphale’s words to Adam not so long ago, human incarnate. The same sort of stuff flawed but loving that had rejected the destiny of the apocalypse. Satan hadn’t planned on his child being pure human, but it seemed that The Almighty did. Although Crowley wouldn’t dare admit it, Aziraphale might have had a point. Whatever Crowley might have said later was cut off by an abrupt whimper. Crowley and Aziraphale turned to see Rome, who was still asleep beneath Aziraphale’s coat, suddenly trembling and whimpering. Her brow was knitted together, and she looked like she was in pain.

“Oh, nightmares, poor thing,” Aziraphale said softly. He hovered a hand over her head, “Please, dream of whatever makes you happiest.” He snapped his fingers. Rome immediately stopped trembling and whimpering, letting out a soft and gentle sigh. Aziraphale smiled fondly at the sleeping girl, and Crowley suddenly wanted to launch himself into the Grand Canyon. Then, he realized, he could. It was dark and empty enough out here. They were unlikely to be spotted by humans, and with how vast everything was, a human mind would quickly write off any winged thing as a bird a strange distance away. Crowley suddenly found himself standing up and discarding his blazer, revealing the sheer lace sleeves of his collared shirt. The air was chill on his arms, and he wouldn’t be able to fly long without his could blood taking over, but a quick jaunt perhaps.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“I thought I might stretch my wings,” Crowley declared. “It’s been a while since I flew.”[4]

“Here?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’d be fun,” Crowley decided.

“It seems dangerous, is all,” Aziraphale said. “You’ve had a bit to drink. And if we’re discorporated-”

“What’d the human say? You appreciate life more the closer you are to death?” Crowley quoted as a defense while smacking away the taste of sudden sobriety. He stepped to the edge of the fenced-in point and let his wings unfold from the interdimensional space he often stored them in. He also discarded his glasses, uneager to lose them to the canyon as he flew. In his periphery, he could see his dark feathers dimly illuminated in the pale and delicate evening light. They weren’t pitch black, there was the slightest hint of midnight blue when the starlight hit the edges at the right angle. They were sleek and well-groomed, as a minority of demons still had wings after the Fall, and even fewer demons still had fully feathered wings, those that did took great pride and vanity in them. He flexed the muscles, first those rooting the wings to his scapula, the back muscles twinging from a lack of use, and then the biceps and triceps of his wings, so they opened and closed, loosening up from the stiffness of disuse. Once he felt the bones no longer creak and the muscles no longer twinge with his rehearsed movements, he took off, jumping off the guardrail in a graceful launch and taking to the sky. Based on the common conceptions of aviation, angels and winged demons shouldn’t be able to fly. Their wings are often out of proportion to their bodies, and their bones lack the aerodynamics of a hollow-boned bird. But angels and demons are creatures of metaphysical power that can defy physics. And so, they can fly anyway. And Crowley could definitely fly. As a serpent, he slithered. As a human, he sauntered. As a fallen angel, he soared. The wind caught his wings as he stretched them out, keeping him gliding through the air, between the canyon walls. He shifted the position of his wings and dropped into a dive, hurtling faster and faster to the basin of the canyon where the river ran, reclaiming his agency with every concession to gravity before finally opening his wings and catching into a fast glide, arcing back upward. With careful flaps and flutters, he was soon spinning through the air, wind in his face, his hair, his feathers. This was an excellent idea, Crowley decided as he soared around Bright Angel point, seeing an actual bright angel watching him with worry from the edge of the guardrail. He landed delicately on the opposite side of the guardrail, his hands on the metal rods and his feet on the edge of the cliff, the only things keeping him from dropping back down the sheer side.

“That does look magnificent,” Aziraphale said longingly.

“Then come join me,” Crowley insisted. “Nobody’s here to see.”

Aziraphale had already been tempted most of the way, just seeing Crowley’s graceful flight, wanting to experience the same exhilaration after so long of being confined. So, without a second word or even a meaningless protest, he gently set the pocket watch he wore on his waistcoat beside Crowley’s folded glasses atop the picnic basket. He turned to Crowley and opened his wings. They were white, pure, and soft white like fresh-fallen snow. They weren’t perfectly groomed like Crowley’s. Aziraphale had a few crooked feathers in the primaries and secondaries, he was missing the gloss of his natural oils being properly distributed, and there was a small burst of fluff as bringing his wings to the mortal plane allowed all of his shed covets to break free at once, little white feathers floating onto the dark pavement. He did the same Crowley had done, a pre-flight check, if you will. He stretched his wings and his back, familiarizing himself with the hidden anatomy and preparing the muscles for use.

Finally, the angel and demon took to the skies. They soared atop currents, dove, and pulled up, arcing through the air. They didn’t fly together, not in any formation, but they were aware of when they were close when the other passed. As they got used to the feelings, the mechanics of control and delicacy coming back like picking up an instrument or remounting a bicycle, they flew closer together, no longer afraid of colliding and plummeting into the Canyon. Crowley swooped around Aziraphale as he glided through the air, the demon’s black wings twisting him like a corkscrew. He whooped every time he made a circuit, and then the whooping turned into small little taunts. Aziraphale met his taunting, and soon, the two were circling each other and shooting into the sky. Above the rim of the Grand Canyon, they were twisting through the air, a double helix spiraling into the sea of stars above them. They hovered for a moment, wings flapping like humans would kick to tread on water, looking at one another and promptly ignoring the whole universe they were floating in. Aziraphale suddenly fell backward into a dive, shouting something about a race to the bottom, and Crowley swooped down without a second thought, plummeting as well. If someone had won, nobody could have determined which, because they both pulled out of the dive in the same femtosecond, wings spreading and catching the air. They glided, nearly wingtip-to-wingtip, over the river at the bottom, close enough they could reach out and skim their knuckles through the dark water. Then they went back up the canyon, parallel with the striped walls as they flapped up to the rim. This up and down, soaring, spinning, it all really could be considered a dance of sorts, if you were the imaginative type. But soon they started to really _feel_ their wings, of course, their flight stamina was not what it once was with all the lack of flight, and so they returned to Bright Angel Point. Aziraphale immediately tucked his wings away, which was a good thing too, because Crowley might have done something horrendous like offer to groom them if he had seen them for a moment more. He folded his away, as well. Their human stead was still sleeping with miraculous peace.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “That was fun.”

Crowley knew his expression was far more indulgent, tender, and affectionate than he ought to let it be, it cracked for only a bare moment, but based on the brilliant smile on Aziraphale’s face, it lasted long enough it was noticed. And once Aziraphale was smiling so brightly he truly put the galaxy above to shame, how could Crowley look away? At least he managed to blurt out a conversation topic he distantly remembered from a decade or so prior, so he had a good reason to watch Aziraphale.[5]

* * *

[1] At least it wasn’t tartan, Crowley mused.

[2] Or rather, the angelic and metaphysical equivalent of a hand.

[3] He was still in denial about how wicked she was. Wicked, cunning, witty, charismatic, if she didn’t have such a strong sense of morality and an easy-to-love disposition, she could rule Hell in a heartbeat. Maybe her loveliness would make it half a heartbeat. Lucifer had been so easy to love, a third of Heaven literally fell for him.

[4] He had, in fact, spent many years in the early days actively avoiding flight because the wind in his face reminded him an awful lot of falling. His time on Earth slowly edged him back into it, but for convenience, he had fazed it out as a primary mode of transport, and it wasn’t his first choice for how to spend his leisure. Too many bugs in his teeth, if he was honest.

[5] He, of course, always had a reason to watch Aziraphale, the deep and unspoken desire to watch Aziraphale, to know Aziraphale, and to always be in Aziraphale’s company. But that wasn’t really a becoming reason. He could hardly tell his best and only friend that he liked to stare at him and do nothing else, so he always made sure there was a good reason. Conversation, Aziraphale eating, a drinking session, Aziraphale reading, and basically any circumstance where the staring was mutual and socially acceptable, or where Aziraphale was too swept up in whatever he was doing to realize Crowley was staring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. I enjoyed writing two paragraphs of Crowley panicking over Aziraphale wiping his mouth. 
> 
> I'm posting this now because I have big exams and reports due next week, and I don't know when I'm going to get freedom.
> 
> As always, I appreciate it when you all interact with this fic, and I especially adore your feedback and getting to hear from you directly in the comments below! Thank you all so much! Until the next chapter.


	12. It's Not The Song, It's The Singing, It's The Human Spirit Ringing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viva Las Vegas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Thanks again for your continued support! Just a few things to note:  
>  \- This chapter is surprisingly lacking in footnotes, but I think the activity can make up for it.  
>  \- Extensive Las Vegas research went into this chapter, so I hope all of you appreciate it.  
>  \- I must be honest, I love Las Vegas as a concept, and some of my favorite things in this fic happen here (don't check the tags shhh)  
>  \- What was it that God said in episode 1 of the show? "The most important events in human history happen not because humans are fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but because they are fundamentally human?" Yeah, keep that in mind.  
>  \- For all my talking up this chapter, it is just a lot of set-up for later fun things. Either way, I hope you enjoy it.

ROME DIDN’T MEAN to fall asleep. It was warm by the heater. She felt safe and serene, and before she knew it, fatigue overtook her, and she was tumbling through an abyss of praying and begging and human suffering. Rome heard the pain get louder and sharper like the tuning radio was finally reaching its mark, the ground under her feet, a new earthly horror awaited her. And then suddenly, a gentle whisper, and she was pulled through the world yet again, this time standing atop a large white rock. She looked around her and saw a familiar sight, the panoramic views of the Grand Canyon, the galaxy overhead. She blinked for a moment, she had been up here, but she had gone down to eat smores and then fallen asleep. To check, she looked over the ledge of the white plateau and saw a gingham picnic blanket, her own form curled up beside the heater, a pale beige dress jacket draped over her. For all the out-of-body experiences she had been having, this was the first time she realized she was indeed out of her body. There it was, below, and here she was, above. She looked back at the view and was surprised to see two forms moving through the sky, flying around and circling each other like orbiting binary stars in a dance. Black and white feathers blurring together: angel and demon, Rome should have realized.

She looked out around her, she was definitely standing in the Grand Canyon, what had dragged her back here, Rome wasn’t sure, but this was the first time she wasn’t being pulled toward something, any movement elsewhere like a fight against an ocean current. She was unbound this time, free to go wherever she desired. She took a step off the edge of the limestone rock, and she walked forward like there was something other than air beneath her feet. She giggled. She had never been so capable in her dreams before, nor had she ever been so lucid. There was still buzzing at the edges of her consciousness, but it wasn’t the whispers and begging she was used to, there wasn’t just melancholy in it. Curious, Rome probed the buzzing, trying to listen to it. It wasn’t only people. It was everything. The more she heard, the more aware she was of the pure vitality that ran through everything like flowing water. She felt the blinding stars dancing through the skies beside her, they were more than just alive, and she tried not to dwell too much on all the feeling, thinking, and loving. She stretched further, sinking deeper into this feeling, not tortured by desperate pleas for help. She felt humans sleeping in their lodgings on the rim and tents in the canyon campgrounds, she could see their dreams if she wanted to. The further she expanded, like a cloud rolling over the land, the less discerning she was for all the life and love she felt, the more the whole of creation blurred, or rather, overlapped and integrated. If she stopped and focused on a small flicker of life, she could see an owl hunting, a couple making love, a fish swimming. But when she pulled back and expanded, she felt more.

It was an odd feeling, to be fully aware and part of everything, to feel life and love, emotion and sensation, flowing through Rome’s consciousness. The best way to describe it would be like music, a symphony of different instruments, each one playing a different note at different times, and the further she pulled back, the further she felt, the more the melody, the more the harmony, the crescendos and decrescendos, the timbre and tone, the beat thrumming in the rhythm of both the core of the earth and her heart. There was no conductor that Rome could see, all the different musicians were playing their instruments to their own rhythms, all the singers were singing a private chorus, and yet when it all swirled together, it became one cohesive piece. It was haunting and bright, delicate and bold, chaos and order, all at once. If this song was written by an infinite composer, the sheet music would be so unfathomably complex, if overlaid all the pieces, it would become a solid block of notation. And yet, _and yet_ , Rome was listening to all of it, and it made perfect sense. The composition was irrelevant to the performers, inconsequential to the notes they played, and yet they played it. Was the composure writing a composition as it went along, or was the composition and composure so grand and knowing they performed it without knowing? In the end, the consequence was identical. There were repeating strands, but every now and then, something utterly new burst through. Sometimes something was too harsh or grating for the rest of the song, a harmony that seemed out of place, a triad that made the audience sick to their stomach. Sometimes, an etude burst forth that was more synchronous and subtle than the rest of the piece, a rare act of universal serenity and harmony, lilting and glorious. It was death metal and church choirs all at once, somehow balanced and stunning. It was far from perfect, but nothing perfect could be so beautiful to hear. It was lovely, loving, and loved.

It was also at the precipice at too much, Rome felt like she was standing at the rim of the Canyon while felt and heard and saw the world, the music and the life, the sorrow, and the prayers. One slip of control, one moment of disequilibrium, and she would tumble into the abyss, to the point of no return. And what more, there was a rhapsody calling her, a siren’s song at the bottom of infinity, urging her to just lean a bit closer. It was too much for Rome, she suddenly couldn’t listen anymore, she had to back away from the edge, close her ears, shut her eyes, pull away, and wake up.

And she did wake up with a cry spilling from her lips, she jolted upright on her picnic blanket. Orange and gold light was in a light haze across the canyon, it was dawn. Rome had managed to probably sleep through the night. She put her head between her knees as her stomach gave a particularly nasty roll, morning sickness, greeting her with a new vengeance.

“Rome, my dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

“Just, you know, nightmare,” Rome said, her voice was rough from sleep. “Consequence of imagination and overeating sugar before bed.”

“I thought you used a miracle to make her have good dreams,” Crowley said aloud but muted, clearly confused more than anything. Rome pretended not to hear.

“Thanks for letting me borrow your coat,” She said, handing the garment back to Aziraphale. She stood up, quicker than she should have with her tumultuous gastroenteric state, and walked to the edge of the peak, bracketing her hands on the guardrail and taking steadying breaths, prepared to spill her guts in the literal sense only. Crowley and Aziraphale were whispering behind her. Apparently, the fact that she was able to have a nightmare after a divine miracle for pleasant dreams was unusual. Rome heard footfall behind her, an Angel behind one of her shoulders and a Demon behind the other. She might have made a joke about it if she wasn’t on the verge of being sick.

“Rome, do you remember your dream?” Aziraphale asked.

“Vaguely,” she said.

“Do you usually have nightmares?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah,” Rome said.

“Are they always the same?” Aziraphale asked.

“What’s with the interrogation here?” She asked, spinning around to face them. “It’s a bad dream.”

“You had a nightmare in spite of a miracle,” Aziraphale said. “That means that something or someone undid the miracle. Was it you, Crowley?”

“Why would I give the Madonna a nightmare?” Crowley asked, sounding offended.

“I don’t know, you _are_ a demon,” Aziraphale said dismissively. Crowley sneered to Aziraphale’s back, and Rome felt a pang of sympathy. “But I’m quite sure it would be obvious if it was you, which means something else gave you a nightmare,” Aziraphale continued. “Something with as much power as an angel. So, if you have any idea what the nightmare was, perhaps that could point us to what caused it.”

“You’re making mountains out of molehills,” Rome insisted, suddenly feeling like she couldn’t breath and that stomach bile was imminent. Her heart was fluttering in her chest.

“It could be the forces of Heaven or Hell attempting to use your mind,” Aziraphale said.

“That doesn’t hold water, it was just a bad dream.”

“And the bad dreams are why you haven’t been sleeping?” Crowley asked pointedly. Rome turned to look at him sharply. Maybe her pregnancy fatigue was a bit more fatigued than it should be, perhaps the dark circles under her eyes were hard to ignore.

“I’m sure they’re a contributing factor, what with all the aches and pains and nausea,” Rome said dismissively.

“Please, Rome, we’re trying to help you,” Aziraphale insisted.

“I don’t want you to!” Rome exclaimed. Then she noticed their expressions, inquisitive and analytic, and backed away slightly. “I don’t- I don’t _need_ you to. I’m fine. I barely remember what it was,” she lied. “And, and it’s not a big deal. The only reason I’m so _bothered_ is that you’re both having a hissy fit over a bad dream.” Rome walked to a different end of the fenced-in viewing platform until Crowley and Aziraphale’s voices faded to an indistinguishable drone.[1] She tried to take steadying breaths as the pair had some sort of private debate and settled at a conclusion with the speed and synergy as many well-paired companions do.

“Come on, Madonna,” Crowley said. “You said you wanted Las Vegas as the next stop, it just so happens a very nice hotel room has been booked under your name.”

“And I can miraculously afford it?’ Rome inquired with a raised brow.

“You can miraculously afford anything these days,” Crowley insisted.

Rome wasn’t stupid, she knew what this was. Obviously, they had decided interrogation didn’t work, so they wanted to get her to trust them. And the way they had decided to go about it, it seemed, was by giving her things she didn’t have before. Like finances. It was almost offensive that they had gone so long on Earth, and they still thought the best way to gain her trust was essentially bribery. Of course, she knew it wasn’t that simple. If she was happy, and if she identified the cause of her happiness as Crowley and Aziraphale, she might have let down her walls a little, it was a reasonable assumption. It just wasn’t feasible for Rome. Rome wasn’t the sort of person who trusted happiness, and she also wasn’t the sort of person who revealed her tells this early in the game. She decided to play along, mostly because the longer this pair thought they were onto something, the longer she would be facing a leisurely game of meeting expectations.

“Well, tickle me pink,” Rome said with a constructed smile.

* * *

ALMOST FOUR HOURS after leaving the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas came into view. They had taken Interstate 15 to get there, arching through the Arizona, Utah, and Nevadan desert before finally reaching the vast, sprawling metropolis. The outer edges were indistinguishable from any other American town, sections good and bad. But in the middle, the buildings towered richly above, it was like an oasis of vice in a vast desert. Crowley sniffed and sniffed and then tasted the air, “So that’s why they call it Sin City.”

“Is sin inherently stinky, or are you just being dramatic?” Rome asked from the backseat, nose in a book. It was one of the few well-worn copies she hadn’t discarded when moving: _Paradise Lost_.

Crowley sneered and parroted her words in a childish voice. Rome snorted lightly and kept on reading. Aziraphale gave Crowley a pointed look, one that reminded the demon they were attempting to get the human to trust them so she would help them better understand why Aziraphale’s miracle was undone. Crowley sighed and abated. The car was quiet for a few more moments as they reached the strip. Rome finally set down her book and started looking up at the massive and ostentatious hotels.

“So, where are we staying?” Rome questioned.

“Almost there,” Crowley said. They approached one of the larger and most famous hotels on the strip: Caesar’s Palace. It really did seem like a palace, with sprawling white architecture towering high into the sky.

“You’re serious?” Rome asked as Crowley pulled into the driveway up to Caesar’s Palace. “My name is Rome, and so, obviously, we have to stay at Caesar’s Palace?”

“If it’s offensive-” Aziraphale began.

“It’s hilarious and stupid, and I’m mad I didn’t suggest it,” Rome said shortly. “Hey, did you guys know Caesar? Either of them?”

“I may or may not have been responsible or suggesting a bit of a public stabbing in mid-March,” Crowley said. “He was already doomed at that point, I just thought the theatricality would be fun. Didn’t go back to Rome after that until Caligula, I think.”

“That was the first time we had lunch together in 41 A.D., wasn’t it?”

“Right, yes, you tempted me to oysters,” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale smiled at him fondly. It was sickeningly adorable. Rome desperately wanted to say, “Oysters are an aphrodisiac,” but Crowley finally pulled up to the valet service, and the conversation ended. A bellhop unloaded all of the bags from the Bentley onto a cart, while a valet took the car to private parking after Crowley was very insistent on his beloved saloon being treated well. They were then escorted into the main lobby, which was vast and stunning and made Rome gasp a bit. The floor was mosaic black, white, brown and gold tile, artwork decorated the walls, golden marble pillars stood everywhere, and there was a massive fountain in the center of everything with a marble statue of three women with bared breasts.

“Welcome to Caesar’s Palace, my name is Cecilia, how can I help you?” The smiling woman at the front desk asked.

“We have a reservation,” Rome said, “Under the name Rosemarie Lowell, I think?”

“Let me see, and, oh, Miss Lowell,” The concierge suddenly stiffened. “We expected you to arrive through the private VIP entrance in the limousine bay or the private entrance.”

“We didn’t take a limousine, is everything alright? We didn’t do anything wrong, did we?” Rome suddenly felt nervous. She had never checked into a place like this before that wasn’t a Motel 6.

“No, not at all. It seems everything is set up for your three-day stay. If you’re at Caesar’s Palace or any of our associated resorts here in Las Vegas, including Planet Hollywood and the Rio, you can use your personal cards to add restaurant charges, shopping charges, and ticket charges directly onto your general bill.” She handed Rome a set of actual metallic and gold-colored cards as room keys. “If you don’t mind staying a moment longer, your personal butler will escort you to your villa.”

“Personal butler?” Rome echoed softly. She suddenly felt sort of dazed. All this talk of VIP entrances and villas, the gold keys with the Caesar’s Palace logo printed across the front.

“What did you do?” She turned to Crowley and Aziraphale.

“I did say it was a nice room,” Crowley said.

“A nice room is a _nice room_ you got a _villa_. I mean, a _suite_ is one thing, but a _villa_!” Rome may or may not have been having a mild panic attack.

“You can afford it,” Crowley shrugged.

The butler appeared, and it was an actual butler, in a suit.

“Madame Lowell,” he greeted Rome kindly. “Welcome to Caesar’s Palace, please, allow me to escort you to your private elevator.” Rome was reeling. A private elevator. It felt like some sick joke, or some sad game, or something that was most certainly inherently wrong. She allowed herself to be escorted, Crowley and Aziraphale trailing behind, the bellhop with the cart full of luggage in the caboose. Rome passed people, she passed expensive interior design and marble statues, the butler using a card to let them through a VIP entrance and leading them to a golden elevator, manned by a private security guard and expansive enough that four humans, an angel, a demon, and a cart full of luggage all fit comfortably.

“Are you alright, Miss Lowell?” The butler asked politely.

“Just a little overwhelmed from all the… travel,” Rome insisted. He nodded politely, but she didn’t feel the least bit relieved. The doors opened up and led them to a short of marble foyer, a card slot to the side, and large, heavy dark wooden double doors leading to her villa. The butler used the card slot and opened the doors for them. There was a plaque beside the doors: _Cleopatra Villa_.

“If you will follow me inside,” he said. As the doors opened, a soft lilting piano solo could be heard, and Rome was gazing and gasping at the “room.” The double doors led into what could only be described as a marble atrium, with marble pillars around a rectangular entryway. Potted plants with beautiful green leaves were in each of the four corners, and a table in the center was decorated with Greek pottery.

“Holy shit,” Rome said, gazing around the room. There was a sitting area directly to the right of the atrium, past the pillars. It had a grand piano, which was playing thanks to a digitized music system built into it. To the left, there was a tropical fish tank and a hallway that Rome assumed to lead to the bedrooms and bathrooms. The butler guided a dazed Rome through the rest of the villa. The sitting area by the piano had both a fireplace and several couches, decorated with neutral upholstery in shades of brown, ivory, gold, and orange. He explained in detail how the entire apartment could be controlled with the tablet he was holding and showing to Rome. Everything, including lights, the fireplace, the piano, the climate, the windows, the drapery, the electronics, and that even he would be summoned and could be contacted through the tablet controls. Then he led them to an entertainment room, paneled in dark wood. There was a billiards table, a bar, multiple places to sit. There was a theater with couches and massage chairs and a very wide screen television that nearly took up an entire wall. Large hunks of crystal and glass-spun statues were artfully arranged on surfaces all throughout. There was an office, a small kitchen, and a grand dining room with twelve places to sit, china plates, and crystal wine glasses. Food from any cuisine in Caesar’s palace could be ordered to the dining room in moments, the butler boasted.

The master bedroom was huge and white. The bed itself was a perfect square, eight feet by eight feet, and being a four-poster had white gauzy curtains draped around it. There were several bureaus for clothes, two chairs nestled by a window. The master bathroom included a colossal marble tub for two in the center of the room with jets, a shower, a sauna, and the actual place that pooping happened was through another set of doors. Rome was barely aware of what was happening when the butler explained that the toilet was remotely controlled and did everything for her, including activate the bidet, but she was too busy staring and the gold and jade sink fixtures. There was a private fitness room off the main bedroom as well, in case Rome wanted to suffer on a treadmill in privacy. The second bedroom wasn’t much less, perhaps the bathroom didn’t have a sauna, and the massive marble bathtub wasn’t in the center of the room as much as it was along one of the walls. The bed wasn’t as huge, it was just a standard king. But even then, the whole place was a thousand times nicer than anywhere Rome had ever fathomed existed.

“And how could I forget, the balcony,” The butler said, leading them to the balcony. Rome was still in that dazed state of absolute shock from the opulence around her. The balcony had a half-circle couch around a fire pit and a private hot tub, with views overlooking the massive outdoor pools. Rome stayed in a daze as their luggage was deposited, and she just continued staring, looking entirely like she had gone into shock. Finally, she stood up and turned off the piano, sitting in front of it and gliding her hands over the keys.

“Do you play?” Aziraphale asked.

“I used to,” Rome said. “When I was… younger. I was good, I think.” She grazed her hands across the keyboard, pressing lightly, remembering her scales and arpeggios first, and having the feeling return to her hands behind used. Then she started playing fragments of things she remembered memorizing and performing, there were missed notes and melodies out of time, mistakes abound, but it was relaxing to get to rehearse her memory: Claire de Lune, Fur Elise, Moonlight Sonata, Rondo Alla Turca, Nocturne in E Flat Major, The Four Seasons, Flight of the Bumblebee, Minute Waltz, and even Carol of the Bells. It was relaxing to play music, not worrying about making it perfect, and just focus on something else than her role, her dreams, and the sheer opulence of the villa.

* * *

AFTER ROME ACCEPTED the opulence of their Villa and treatment at Caesar’s Palace with minimal disbelief, she hesitantly allowed Crowley and Aziraphale to do whatever they thought would get her to talk about her feelings. First, Aziraphale asked her to accompany him to the salon because he wanted his nails done, and Crowley wished to wreak havoc on the casino floor. She accepted the invitation to get mani-pedis with the angel, finding herself actually enjoying the company and activity. Once their nails were done, Aziraphale opting for a clear coat while Rome’s were a fun shade of lilac, they stepped outside and immediately into chaos. The cashier’s cage had a massive line, people were carrying armfuls of tokens, others were leaving with bountiful sums of money. Security guards and workers at Caesar’s were puzzling around the place with worried expressions.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said. Sauntering through the chaos was Crowley, smiling and seeming quite pleased with himself. He saw Rome and Aziraphale and sidled up to them, his hips swinging as they always did, his legs moving around each other like a once-beloved celebrity couple now on their third or fourth spouse since, coming across each other at a red-carpet event while being dressed in the most ostentatious thing they owned. “Crowley, what did you do?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley was grinning with immense self-gratitude, “All of a sudden, all the card games stopped favoring the house, all the coin slots hit the jackpot, and it was mass chaos from there on out. I think in an hour, the casino lost fifty million dollars. Half of these folks will suddenly think they’re lucky and gamble away their life savings, others will use the money on prostitutes or cocaine or something. Maybe one or two of them will pay off their student loans, can’t have it be perfect,” he shrugged.[2]

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted disapprovingly.

“Enjoy your manicure?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, yes, they were very skilled there,” Aziraphale said. “We missed your company.”

“I nearly convinced Aziraphale to get acrylics,” Rome said. Crowley snorted.

“Yes, I’m certain if you collaborated with Crowley’s wiles, I’d have no chance,” Aziraphale said. “Do you think we could have a spot of lunch? There are so many places to eat here, and I’m sure Rome’s getting peckish.”

“I mean, I could eat,” Rome shrugged. “There’s supposed to be a lot of restaurants at The Forum Shops.”

“Well, we need to go there anyway. I thought I could deal with it, but I can’t,” He motioned vaguely at Rome. “Can’t have Madonna dressing like she found her clothes in a dumpster.”

“They’re clean!” Rome protested.

“And old and worn and ugly,” Crowley said. “I can excuse your bizarre sense of fashion, not when you look like, a, uh-”

“Ragamuffin?” Rome offered.

“Vagrant,” Crowley countered.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Rome didn’t seem offended, “You know, I actually do think I bought these pants when I was homeless.”

“You were homeless?” Crowley asked suddenly.

“Yeah, I lived in a car for like three and a half years,” Rome said. “Anyway, if I’m that much of a horror to look at, I suppose we can go to the mall. I’d end up needing maternity clothes sooner or later, but I am not buying _anything_ designer.”

“Weird line to draw. You know money is of no consequence.”

“It is for other people. Besides, have you seen the most modern designer fashion? It’s ugly, everyone tries so hard to be special and new, and soon we’re all wearing denim jackets with sleeves so long we look like Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Men,” Rome said. She headed in the direction of the massive Forum shops.

“That’s a specific criticism,” Crowley observed, feeling a bit confused. After lunch, which was followed by cheesecake, they finally managed to look at clothes. The Forum Shops in Caesar’s Palace were designed to emulate the feeling of walking through Rome, with cobblestone pathways, Romanesque storefronts, and the ceiling painted to look like the sky, blue with fluffy white clouds. Fountains and statues were dotting the walkway. They flitted between stores, Rome still attracted to the bright and eccentric colors and patterns when she dared show any interest at all.

“Why do you like colors so much?” Crowley complained as she picked up an orange and blue floral shirt.

“Oh, you’re just jealous because snakes are deuteranopic,” Rome said dismissively.

“I happen to be able to see more colors than you can if I wanted to,” Crowley insisted. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t, guess you’re left pondering,” Rome replied.

That conversation encapsulated most of Rome’s Crowley-motivated shopping adventure. It was as if Crowley assumed at a certain point, if he bought Rome enough things, perhaps she would finally answer some of his more straightforward questions, which would lead to the more difficult questions. Crowley’s vending-machine style attempt at trust, however, was generally unsuccessful. After three hours of shopping, most of which was Rome trying things on, looking at price tags, and balking on most items, her frugality hardwired into her. But she did manage to find some maternity clothes, which would come in handy when she started to show.

“I think I’m done,” Rome finally said. “I have doubled my closet-”

“You mean replaced it,” Crowley said.

“I’m definitely keeping some of it. I just want to rest for a moment, pregnant woman and all, we should head back to the villa,” she said. They came across Aziraphale, looking at a jewelry store window display. “Planning on proposing?” Rome joked.

“Sorry?” Aziraphale startled. “Oh, no, I was just admiring, er, some of the handiwork.”

Rome glanced at the display where Aziraphale had been staring and caught sight of a pair of wedding bands, a “his” and a “hers” for society was exceptionally heteronormative. Both of the rings were made for the most part of bright yellow gold. The “his” ring had a strip of black titanium wrapped around the center of the band, the “her” ring had a row of little diamonds in the same place. They also had versions of the paired rings in platinum, white gold, and rose gold, but Aziraphale had definitely been looking at the yellow gold.[3]

“They’re pretty,” Rome agreed.

While in the elevator, heading up to the villa, Rome said, “So, Penn and Teller have a show tonight. You said you like magicians, Aziraphale.” Crowley groaned.

“Do you think we could still get tickets this late?” Aziraphale asked. Rome glanced at Crowley, who was already halfway to caving.

“I’m sure if someone talked to the concierge, they could magic something up,” Rome said. “There’s also a Michelin-star restaurant here in Caesar’s Palace, Restaurant Guy Savoy. It opens in two hours. You could probably get dinner before the show.”

“You talk about it like you wouldn’t go,” Crowley said.

“Oh, I’m a bit tuckered out, actually,” Rome pouted. “But, you guys should go out and have a nice evening.”

“Have you forgotten the fact that we’re supposed to be protecting you?” Crowley asked.

“As of yet, there has been zero danger,” Rome said. “And it ain’t like you couldn’t poof yourselves here if I needed you to. The villa has all this fancy-schmancy security, I can only assume that’s why you insisted on booking a place so ostentatious.”

The rest of the argument was irrelevant because two hours later, Aziraphale and Crowley were going out, and Rome was staying in. She seemed a bit smug about the whole thing from where she was lounging in the sitting room off the atrium as Aziraphale straightened his bowtie in the mirror. He had changed into a more formal outfit, which included an all-beige tuxedo, ivory shirt, and sky-blue silk bowtie. He had, of course, managed to stealth some tartan on his socks.

“Ready angel?” Crowley asked, sauntering over. He had changed into a tuxedo as well, although he wore his with more violations, no tie, and a black silk shirt, and his much-beloved serpentine accessories.

“Y’all better enjoy yourselves, you hear?” Rome ordered.

“What will you be doing with your evening?” Aziraphale asked.

“Resting, probably,” Rome said she kicked off the couch to see them out, “I might get room service if I’m hungry. Personal butler and all.” She shrugged. “I’ll text you if anything interesting happens over here, though I reckon it won’t. I’ll call you if I’m in mortal danger, again, doubtful. Enjoy yourselves and try to be back before the sun is.” She closed the door behind them and relished the few moments of being completely alone she had since she let the supernatural entities into her life. And now that she felt safe that they wouldn’t hear her sleeping, that was precisely what she wanted to do. Maybe it had been Aziraphale’s miracle, but she had learned last night there was more to her dreaming than just hearing suffering. If she could make herself lucid, or rather, more lucid, while having one of those horribly scient dreams, they could become more manageable.

And so, Rome tried. She settled herself in a pajama set she had recently purchased, on the lovely and massive bed with white gauzy curtains, the lights off, the blackout drapery drawn. Her phone and the room tablet were beside her. Sleep took her quickly, and she felt the familiar tumbling. Once she landed at the next horror, the suffering of people begging for her help, this event in question being a prison in China for the purpose of “reeducating” those of Islamic faith. Thousands of voices whispered in her head, praying to Allah, and she tried to listen beyond them. Everything else, past the pain and suffering. She wanted to feel the world again, but the harder she reached, the more it slipped out of her fingers like water and sand. Suddenly, she had nothing to hold on to, tumbled through human suffering, and woke up with a start. She checked the time and noticed she had been asleep for about an hour. She groaned, checked her phone, and then decided to get to settle back to sleep. If she failed three times in a row, she agreed with herself that she would order some food and watch something stupid in the movie room in a massage chair.

* * *

[1] If Rome had been listening to the conversation, she would have heard Aziraphale state, “She's lying.”

Then, she would have heard Crowley reply, “Obviously,” with a decent portion of annoyance.

“Do you think you could tempt her into telling the truth?” She may have heard Aziraphale ask quietly.

“Isn’t honesty more of your expertise?”

“Yes, well, I have the feeling that our conventional methods might not be successful.”

“It’s not a matter of temptation, angel, she doesn’t trust us. I know not being trusted must be an unfamiliar feeling for you being an angel and all, but believe me, this is what it’s like.”

“So, what should we do about it?”

[2] Rome did not happen to mention that his actions reminded her of a much-beloved series of heist movies with star-studded ensemble casts set in Las Vegas, particularly the third one, because she saw little point in it.

[3] If Aziraphale had to justify why the rings had caught his eye, something about gold with a black line through the center reminded him of something, or someone, in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> As I always say, I appreciate your feedback immensely in whatever form. Of course, I especially adore comments because it gives me the opportunity to get to know your thoughts more directly, and I love interacting with all of you!
> 
> Until the next chapter!


	13. No Better Version of Me Could I Ever Pretend To Be Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome has a confusing night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, I hope all of you are ready for the nonsense that's this chapter. This was fun to edit and post because I burned my entire hand moments prior (cooking is a dangerous sport). Just a few little notes for this chapter:  
> \- It's slightly harder than it seems to get married in Las Vegas on a whim, but I think miracles can make up the difference.  
> \- I just... like Hastur. He's so weird and so fun.
> 
> I hope that you all like this chapter because it was a blast to write, and it also shapes where the plot is heading more starkly.

THE DUKE OF Hell known as Hastur was not aware of why he had been summoned by Lord Beelzebub, Lord and Prince of Hell, but when ze summons someone, they are expected to come quickly. And so, Hastur appeared before Beelzebub with courtesy.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Hastur greeted zir.

“Hastur,” Beelzebub nodded in response. “I have an assignment for you. It has to do with the traitor, Crowley.” Demons were not supposed to feel fear, they were supposed to cause it. That being said, when Crowley’s name was uttered, Hastur couldn’t help but feel a bit less demonic than usual. He remembered the last time he had seen the traitor, splashing around in a bathtub of Holy Water, yellow eyes glowing through the dreariness of Hell. And before, a bucket of Holy Water wielded by the demon Crowley had destroyed Hastur’s old colleague, Ligur, and nearly destroyed Hastur. There was an existential concern that Hastur felt about Crowley. “He and the angel are in America. They have a woman with them, and they are planning something with her. It’s in Hell’s best interests to know. We have reason to believe that she is alone at the moment, meaning it’s the best opportunity to tempt her into betraying the traitors and telling us what their plans are.”

“So, I am to tempt her?” Hastur asked.

“Quickly,” Beelzebub nodded. “Terrify her to betray them if you must, but do not kill her. Not until I am satisfied with what we know.”

After his instructions, Hastur rose to the city where the woman in question, Rosemarie Lowell, was currently trying and failing to fall into a fitful sleep. As he walked through the filth of Sin City, the seven deadliest ones being tangible in the air. It was as pleasant for a demon as being out on a fair, sunny day was for a human. Hastur entered the grandeur hotel through a side entrance, weaving his way through where there would have been shadows if not for everything being so well-lit, finding access to where he knew this human woman, an ally of the demon Crowley, the one with the information that Hastur needed. Hastur, of course, already had plans for how to retrieve that information. Humans were often weak to the terrors of Hell and its demons, all it took was releasing the horror, terrifying the human for their life, and they did what a demon wanted. Some temptations were not so simple, temptations to sin often involved manipulating a human mind with whispers until they succumbed or were driven to insanity. But Lord Beelzebub had said that time was of the essence, they did not know how long the human would be alone and meeting the demon Crowley, and his angelic companion was very low on the list of things that Hastur hoped to do on this day.

He made the human's technology bend to his will, opening doors that were locked and making his way up many flights of stairs. Hastur did not have much experience on Earth and didn’t know if he stepped into the strange boxlike room it would transport him to the floor he wanted to travel to without stairs. He finally made his way up to the correct level. There was a heavy wooden door, a plaque that said _Cleopatra Villa_. He knocked heavily on the door. Banging on it as hard as he could.

“I’m coming!” A syrupy voice called from the other side of the door. It opened, and there was the woman in question. Rosemarie Lowell, looking at him in dull surprise. “You’re not Chinese food.”

“Rosemarie Lowell,” He greeted her by her full name. Usually, humans would be intimidated by being known. Rosemarie Lowell just cocked her head to the side. Then he let the horror begin. Black liquid trickled from his eyes, nose, and mouth. The lights flickered and extinguished, the only light his infernal glow. Maggots wormed their way out of his flesh and started to drop to the ground. Usually, humans were screamed. Rosemarie Lowell did not scream.

“Most folks call me ‘Rome,’” she said.

“What?” Hastur asked the horror ended abruptly as he lost concentration for confusion.

“My name – I mean, I was certainly baptized as Rosemarie Lowell, but I call myself Rome,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Hastur,” he said.

“Well, where are my manners, do you want to come in, Hastur?” She offered the richly decorated interior of her villa to him with a smile. This was not right. Demons were not greeted politely and invited inside.

“No!” he exclaimed. “This is wrong!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” Rome asked with a soft pout.

“You are supposed to be afraid.”

“Oh, no,” Rome said. “I’m awfully sorry, Hastur, sir, I just woke up and I’m a bit groggy. Here, tell you what, why don’t we reset? I’ll close the door, and you can do this whole routine again, and I’ll be scared proper this time around, promise,” she smiled hopefully. Hastur nodded, and the door closed in his face. He banged on the door, and he banged on the door, and it opened.

“Rome Lowell,” He said this time. He did the same tricks, maggots and flickering lights, and black goo. This time Rome did look scared. She backed away and had a look of fear in her eyes. She dropped her phone as she scampered backward. He pursued her, the door slamming shut behind him. She looked as afraid as she was going to get, so he said, “Tell me the plans of the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale.” He ordered.

“They’re on a date,” Rome replied, nonchalance leaking back into her response.

“Date?” Hastur stopped again. The goo disappeared, the maggots continued to writhe on the ground, and the lights stopped flickering. On a date? Wasn’t that a human courting ritual?

“Oh, no, did I do something wrong again?” Rome frowned, standing up. “Sorry, I’m new to this, you’re my first haint.”

“’Haint?’”

“You know, a ghost or a demon trying to scare me, haint,” She said.

“But the demon Crowley-”

“Oh, Crowley’s no haint, he’s a sweetie,” Rome shook her head.

“Sweetie?” Hastur echoed.

“Do you not know the words I’m saying, or are they just confusing you, or is it a bit of both?” Rome asked.

“The… last one.” Hastur suddenly said. This was odd. He didn’t like odd. He had half a mind to set the woman on fire, but Beelzebub had said no killing. Maybe he could scare her more. Perhaps he could make the walls bleed, that was a classic.

“Well, my apologies,” Rome said sweetly. “Do you mind if I clean up the maggots?” He shook his head and watched as she used a plate and a piece of paper to sweep the trail of maggots onto the plate, and then dumped them into the tank of fish swimming off the atrium. They were soon promptly gobbled up, and she was utterly unbothered when she had to pick one out of her hair. Perhaps she had strange fears, humans were usually quite standard, but sometimes a strange one was afraid of weird things. So, he probed at her mind. It was a simple demon trick, to find fear and vice. And he was confronted with nothing, or rather, he was confronted with a wall. The woman’s mind was completely shielded.

“What are you?” Hastur whispered.

“Human,” she said, “Am I doing that wrong, too?” There was a polite knock at the door. “ _That_ must be Chinese food.” She walked over to the door. A man was speaking, it was a human, he was quite afraid of spiders. Hastur was quite sure that this woman was the anomaly. She took the cart from the man and closed the door. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“I don’t need to eat, I’m a demon,” He said.

“Well, then, eating when you don’t need to for the sake of eating is a sin, ain’t it? Gluttony and all? You’re supposed to be all about sin, right?” She asked politely. “Well, I’m eating in the dining room, and you’re welcome to join me.”

“I don’t… understand,” Hastur said finally, standing in the atrium. She had not been afraid of him at first, and he was beginning to think the second time she just _pretended_ to be scared.[1] She was unbothered by his maggots, her mind was guarded against demonic fear, and she had invited a demon to eat dinner with her, saying it was probably good for him if he did because it would be a sin. “Are you making fun of me?” he finally asked angrily.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Rome insisted. “I’m really sorry.”

“You’re apologizing to me!”

“Oh, am I not supposed to? I like apologizing, that’s on me, thank you for being so helpful.”

“And now you-” Hastur groaned and started to bite his knuckle until it wept black goo, foul-tasting, and smelling, all across his lip and front. Rome didn’t notice for a moment, she was too busy unpacking her dinner, the smell of fried rice and tofu wafting into the air. She looked up and saw his state and dared to have sympathy.

“Am I not supposed to thank you, either?” Rome asked, hardening up a little bit, more inquisitive than sorrowful. “Now I get you’re a demon, and all that, but I really would prefer to keep my manners.”

“Tell me what the plan is!” Hastur bellowed.

“The plan?” Rome repeated. “Or The Plan?”

“You said the same words twice,” Hastur said, thoroughly bewildered, befuddled, and bemused by this entire conversation and the human herself. “But the second time with emphasis.”

“Well, maybe you could be a bit clearer on why you’re here, and we can sort this out, right and dandy,” Rome said. “You said something about Crowley and Aziraphale having a plan.”

“The plan to do with you,” Hastur nodded.

“They don’t have a plan,” Rome said. “I mean, not in the long-term. Well, yes, in the _really_ long-term but not in the manageably long-term, you understand. If they have any other sorts of plans, they haven’t really told me. But to be fair, we’re just getting to know each other, I’m not surprised some things aren’t said yet.” She turned to her food and started eating carefully and slowly. Hastur watched her eat. He had never gone this long around a human he wasn’t actively tempting, terrorizing, or torturing. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Hastur didn’t know how to reply to this. Did he have information that would satisfy Lord Beelzebub? He didn’t feel like he did, but he also felt like he had just been introduced with more details than he knew what to do with.

“I need to know the plan,” Hastur said with emphasis.

“I don’t know what to tell you, I’m sorry, Hastur,” she said, sounding _sad_ about it. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be simple enough that it’s understood, you know? Nobody really knows what’s going on, they’re just doing their best.”

“But _why_?” Hastur asked.

“For creation and humankind,” Rome said. “For people, persons, and individuals. For all the good stuff and all the bad stuff, the right things, and the wrong things. It’s better to be part of something infinite and unfathomable than something known and unchanging.”

Hastur didn’t really understand what was said, but it sounded like a plan, and that was what he was here for. So perhaps, now he could go. Should he hurt her first? She didn’t seem to be leaving this conversation with a demon with torment or vice. She checked her phone.

“Oh, Crowley and Aziraphale are on their way here, you probably will want to skedaddle before they see you. I’m guessing y’all ain’t fixing for a happy reunion,” she said. Hastur did not need to be told to be a second time, he went straight back to Hell.

* * *

AT TWO IN the morning, Rome gave up on trying to sleep. She ordered some room service and was surprised at how quickly there was banging on the door, but that was a place as extravagant as the Cleopatra Villa and Caesar’s Palace, she supposed the speed might’ve been justified. She opened the doors, and there was a man who looked homeless standing on the other side, his eyes each entirely black orbs. Rome realized what he was immediately because he started speaking and oozing goo and maggots. When she wasn’t instantly obviously terrified, she bought some time to close the door, and as the demon, Hastur knocked a second time, she dialed Crowley. As she backed away in horror, it went to voicemail. Not knowing what had happened to Crowley and Aziraphale, she stalled Hastur as long as she could, bullshit is an acquired skill of which she had a stellar aptitude and managed to realize he was uncomfortable in her presence. He didn’t seem to know about the baby, which was a blessing in itself, and as soon as Crowley texted _OMW,_ she informed him of their imminent arrival, and the demon promptly evaporated on the spot.

At three in the morning, after nearly an hour of pacing, there was a knock at the door. Rome checked the peep-hole this time, and it was, indeed, Crowley and Aziraphale. They looked worse for wear, leaning against the door with wobbly legs. She opened the door, and that was when the smell hit her, and she realized that they weren’t just dizzy, uncoordinated, unusually giggly, and far stranger than she had ever seen them before: they were also pissed drunk. She felt a flare of emotion, some of it anger but most of it guilt. She had told them she would be safe if they left and enjoyed themselves, and they had enjoyed themselves, and been unable to protect her in the way that they felt assigned to do. She had managed herself fine, but they would feel like crap in the morning when she told them. Of course, she would say to them. It seemed like, through her choices, they were all doomed to suffer. Of course, Rome was a bit melodramatic. They were the ones who had gotten incredibly drunk. Enjoying themselves to the point they could barely stand wasn’t precisely what Rome had ever anticipated when she wanted them to have a night out. She thought they would go to dinner and a show, maybe get a drink or two after and come back feeling relieved and relaxed.

Of course, chaos presented itself before Rome could spend too much time worrying and moping over the events of the night. It happened like this: Aziraphale and Crowley stumbled into the villa like they had never been in a building before. Crowley took four steps and collapsed face-first on the marble floors. Aziraphale giggled at his wipeout and picked up Crowley by the ankle, dragging him toward the living room. Rome watched this entire ordeal with still confusion as if moving would disrupt whatever strange ritual was happening here. Aziraphale wasn’t watching where he was going and tripped on the coffee table in the sitting area, falling backward onto the couch. He then stopped moving. So, Aziraphale and Crowley were both in the living room. Crowley on the rug, Aziraphale on the sofa. They were both giggling and staying in their prone positions. Crowley had dropped something when he had fallen: a white bag. Rome went to pick it up and nearly dropped it again when she saw the logo.

_VIVA LAS VEGAS TRADITIONAL & THEMED WEDDINGS_

“No,” Rome gasped with both horror and unwelcome excitement, rifling through the bag. She pulled out a crushed bouquet of roses,[2] a wedding album of photographs, a disk that she assumed had video evidence of the wedding, a wedding scroll, a unity candle, and a marriage license. “What the fuck.” She put all the things back in the bag, setting it on the table in the atrium. Then she went over to Crowley and Aziraphale.

“Hey,” She said gently. “Um, so, did y’all realize you got married?” Her words made angel and demon both burst out laughing as if it was the funniest thing in the world. “How much alcohol did you have?” Rome asked.

“We sssssplit a red at the resssstaurant,” Crowley hissed, his voice sibilant and slurred.

“And then after the, uh, the show,” Aziraphale slurred. “We had champagne, din-didn’t we? Dom preg- perg- prog-.”

“Dom Perignon?” Rome asked, vaguely aware that champagne often went for half of a thousand dollars per bottle.

“Yes!” Aziraphale exclaimed, trying to sit up, making a face proving that was a terrible idea, and lying back down. “And then… what happened, Crowley?”

“We talked,” Crowley said. “Drank ssssssssome more. Cocktailssssss.”

“And then what?” Rome asked. “How do you go from chatting over cocktails to matrimony?[3]” The pair of them burst out laughing again. “If there’s a joke, I’m not getting it.”

“We talked,” Aziraphale said. “About human things we havendoneyet,” he slurred the last three words together until they were barely sensical.

“Sssstupid thingsssss,” Crowley hissed in agreement.

“How many drinks did you have at the bar, besides splitting a bottle of champagne?” Rome asked. She was trying to do alcohol math in her mind.

“Fo- Five,” Aziraphale declared.

“Ssssssixssssss,” Crowley hissed.

“And then you got married?”

“I-I-ah, I do believe so, eventually.”

“And did you drink anything after the ceremony?”

“Loadsssss of chsssssssampagne, enough for a whole reception,” Crowley made a face. “ _Bad_ chssssampagne.”

“Can’t get good champagne at a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel,” Rome said, clucking at them like a brooding mother hen, which was not unlike the role they had shacked her into, she realized in horror. “Fuck, I’m the competent adult here.” She sighed, “You two should really sleep. You know, let the alcohol out of your systems.”

“We can just mer- mac- get it out,” Aziraphale assured her.

“You can’t say the word ‘miracle,’ forgive me if I worry your attempts to remove alcohol from your bloodstreams would remove your bloodstream,” Rome said.

“Ssssshe’sssss got a point. Let’sssssss jusssssst ssssssssleeeep.” Crowley started trying to slither around the leg of the coffee table while still a human. He managed to kick the table so hard that one of the decorative crystal orbs rolled off it and landed on his face.

“No!” Aziraphale said, trying to catch the crystal with a horribly delayed reaction time. All he did was fall after the orb and land on Crowley as well.

“Warm,” Crowley murmured.

Rome was torn between laughing and crying, the night had been overwhelming enough with everything else that had happened. Now she had to deal with drunk newlyweds. _Newlyweds_.

“Well, you did say you were done being patient,” Rome murmured.

“Who ssssssaid that?” Crowley asked.

“I wasn’t talking to you, honey,” Rome sighed. “You know, the best place to sleep is a bed.”

“Bedsssss,” Crowley said.

“I don’t _want_ to go to sleep!” Aziraphale exclaimed petulantly, still lying atop Crowley with his face beside the demon’s hip.

“Ssssssleep issssss good Ssssssziraf’l,” Crowley disagreed.

Rome counted her blessings, namely that they weren’t horny, although, with the amount of alcohol they consumed, she doubted they would be able to be sexually active even if they made an effort to have the right equipment.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” she said sweetly. “Want to try the massage chair?”

“Massage?” He perked up slightly.

“Sssssleeep!” Crowley protested. “Bedsssss!”

“We’ll get you in a bed soon enough, honey,” Rome assured him. She had done the math in her head, and it must have been the fact they had been drinking since it was invented that either of them was still conscious. Or maybe it was the adrenaline of getting married. Either way, they were bound to start crashing and barfing soon, and Rome didn’t want to deal with that. She helped Aziraphale stand up off of Crowley and escorted him to the massage chairs in the movie room. He sat down and sighed when she turned it on. It seemed he would be entertained long enough for her to put Crowley to bed. She was starting to feel more and more like the mother of two with a third on the way, except the two were older than the planet she lived on, and also, they just got married. She went back to the sitting room off of the atrium, where Crowley had last been on the ground. He was gone now. She cursed a melodic chant as she searched the entire villa for the serpentine demon, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit– Crowley!” She finally found him in the bathroom adjacent to the second bedroom, spread out like a starfish on the cold tiles. His dark glasses were gone, and she was a bit stunned to see him without them for the first time. His eyes yellow, somewhere between gold and amber, with black slits down the center. Serpent of Eden, indeed, she mused.

“I don’t feel good,” he moaned.

“Are you going to throw up?” Rome asked.

“I don’t know, I’m hot,” he said.

“Then take your clothes off,” Rome replied, suddenly regretting her own tongue. Crowley managed to undress, in spite of his horrible coordination, with relative speed. He all but slid out of his clothes, Rome had the foresight to avert her gaze.[4]

“Crowley, didn’t you say you wanted to sleep?” Rome asked while looking pointedly at the light fixture above them.

“Ssssssleep,” Crowley agreed.

“Well, then we should go to bed, shouldn’t we?” she suggested. “And I’ll use the tablet to make the room really cold if you’re still overheated.”

“Ngleeersssssssss,” Crowley was making strange jumbled hissing noises into the tile now. Rome reached down to help him up, eyes focused on his ear, and he squirmed away. “No toussssssch!” he insisted. Rome backed away suddenly with her hands in the air.

“No touch,” she agreed. “But I can’t leave you on the floor, Crowley. Would you be okay if Aziraphale touched you?”

Crowley giggled, “Ssssziraph’l kissssssed me.”

“Did he?” Rome asked, pretending to sound surprised. She imagined if they had gotten married, they probably sealed the deal with a kiss. “So, he can touch you?”

“I dunno,” Crowley said. “Tousssssch issssss bad.”

“Why is touch bad?” Rome asked.

“Hurtssssssss,” Crowley hissed. “Demonsssss hurt.”

“I’m not a demon,” Rome insisted. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” Crowley didn’t abate, and Rome realized she was probably overstepping boundaries. She hadn’t meant to, really, she was just too naturally curious for her own good. She didn’t think it was fair to blame her for a bit of misplaced interest. She sighed, “Come on, you said you wanted to sleep in a bed, didn’t you? You’ll have to go to the bedroom then.”

Crowley’s decision to make the way to the bed was clear from how he started to rise off the ground, but stayed loose and draped, floating through the air with all his limbs askew.

“I’m not sure magic while intoxicated is the best idea,” Rome spoke.

“It’sssss fine!” Crowley insisted, turning in the air like he was skewered on a rotisserie. He attempted to float in the direction of the door, but with his drunken aim, he ended up crashing into the wall and then bouncing off of it. Rome continued to watch him float around, spinning, and missing the door. He gave a particularly nasty lurch through the air and collapsed on the tile. Before Rome could snark something about his lack of coordination, he sat up halfway quite suddenly, pulled himself into the shower, and then promptly threw up all over himself and the clean tiles. Rome sighed and went over to the shower controls, turning them on. Crowley screeched and then relaxed on the shower floor, letting the warm water wash over him.

“I’ll be back in a bit with some sleepwear,” Rome announced. She picked up his clothes strewn around the bathroom and went to the adjacent bedroom, where Aziraphale had a trunk full of clothes. It seemed that Crowley hadn’t packed any clothing, Rome reminding herself he probably just conjured whatever he wanted to wear when he wore it. Rome settled on taking some clean clothes out of Aziraphale’s trunk for Crowley. They had gotten married, couldn’t really complain about sharing clean underwear, could they? She retrieved a pair of white and blue striped boxer shorts and a white undershirt and brought them to the bathroom where Crowley was still slumped over in the shower. She turned it off for him and tossed him a towel.

“I’m not drying you,” she said. “Here are clothes, please put them on, and don’t come out until you’re decent.”

“I’m never decent.”

“Sure, edge-lord.”

She went to the bedroom and untucked the duvet and sheets, then she used the climate controls to make that room in particular about ten degrees colder than room temperature. Crowley was still dressing, she hoped he didn’t get too confused with the effort, so she went to the small kitchen and filled up a tall glass of water for his bedside. She set it down and waited, pacing the second bedroom, debating seeing if Crowley had done something stupid and gotten himself trapped in the toilet. Three minutes of dithering later, the door opened, and Crowley stumbled out, dressed. He collapsed on the bed.

“There, there,” she said. “Now, you can get some rest.”

“I need Asssziraphuhl,” Crowley insisted, grabbing Rome’s wrist with his left hand. She noticed he had a ring now on his third finger, gold with a narrow row of diamonds in the middle. She was starkly reminded of Aziraphale admiring that same wedding band and its partner earlier that day, or since it was three in the morning, yesterday.

“He said he doesn’t like to sleep,” Rome said delicately.

Crowley’s fingers bit into her wrist, forming crescent-shaped spots. She didn’t wince, barely feeling the sharp insistence. Crowley hissed again, somehow managing to speak without syllables, “I _need_ myangel.”

“Okay, I’ll get him, you stay put,” Rome said. Crowley was satisfied and let go, Rome rubbed absent-mindedly at the pink indentations in her flesh and went back to where she had left Aziraphale. He had undone his tie and was dozing lightly in the massage chair, looking around the room at the lights like they were fascinating. Rome was quite sure he had developed a case of double-vision.

“Aziraphale,” Rome said. “Crowley needs you.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale brightened up immediately, a smile cutting through his generally dazed state with such irradiant brilliance that Rome felt slightly flustered on Crowley’s behalf. It only took gentle coaxing and a guiding hand at his arm for Rome to steer Aziraphale out of the massage chair and to the bedroom where Crowley was waiting impatiently.[5] “Crowley!” He exclaimed.

“Angel,” Crowley reached for him. “Ssssssleep with me pleasssssse.”

“But- but- but-” Aziraphale stuttered, suddenly looking distraught. “I’ll wrinkle my suit.”

“You can take it off,” Rome suggested, again cursing herself. It seemed half of her advice one way or another led to nudity. She decided to go fix another glass of water for the inevitable hangovers and hoped when she came back, everything was in some way sorted out. She also drank half a glass for herself, needing something to ground her after all of this. When she returned, they were in bed together. Aziraphale was in the center of the bed on his back. Crowley was wrapped around Aziraphale, head on his chest, arms around his middle, their legs were tangled. It seemed some touch was not bad, after all. The blankets were bunched up at the bottom of the bed. Crowley was already asleep, it seemed. Rome went to turn off the light.

“Rome,” Aziraphale whispered. “Could you… er, be a dear, and, uh, pull up the covers? I did- I don’t want to jostle Crowley.”

“Of course,” Rome said, smiling warmly past the face she was tucking a drunk angel and demon into bed. “You can rest, you know. You’ll feel better if you do.”

“Perhaps, I could close my eyes,” Aziraphale said, letting them drop shut. Rome left and turned off the light. Ten minutes later, she could hear light snoring drifting down the hall, and she knew that they had both fallen asleep.

“Well, that happened,” She whispered quietly. “Six thousand years of friendship and they escalate to marriage in one drunken night.” Rome had a lot of concerns. She was concerned that they wouldn’t remember what happened the night prior. She was worried that they wouldn’t use this as an opportunity to confront why they had drunkenly gotten married but just repress whatever there was to repress even further. Part of her wanted to watch the wedding ceremony, so she was prepared, but another part of her knew that would be a violation of privacy, it was up to them now. She worried idly that this would drive one of them away. If it were Aziraphale, she would deal with a moping demon likely to take his suffering out on her or others, but at least there would be a car. If it were Crowley, meanwhile, she and Aziraphale would be effectively stranded in Las Vegas (although she was quite sure Aziraphale could miracle a vehicle if need be, and she could drive) but even worse, she would have to deal with Aziraphale trying to put on a brave face to help keep her safe and assured but being miserable all the while. If they didn’t know they had gotten married, of course, getting drunk and sleeping in a bed together was a bit more excusable. It wasn’t inherently romantic or committed in nature, it was far easier to blame on intoxication. And really, how hard would it be to hide the evidence? But the moment Rome thought of that idea, the moment she knew it was a selfish thought. They had gotten themselves into this mess, and they would have to deal with the consequences, this was the nature of free will. Rome would help as best she could, although she hadn’t a blessed idea of _how_ she would. But that was a thought for later, and later was not now.

* * *

[1] Hastur, ever slow to the conclusion, was correct in this assumption.

[2] If she had been more observant, she might have seen that both Aziraphale and Crowley had a rose boutonniere.

[3] The answer, of course, was a lot of cocktails.

[4] She was aware that angels and demons were inherently sexless and genderless entities. Aziraphale had explained when she was concerned about misusing pronouns for the pair of them. Aziraphale preferred a male presentation for ease of use in society but didn’t feel particularly interested or committed to either end of the human binary. Crowley was more fluid with his presentation, liking to be either one or somewhere in between like a pick-and-mix. As for genitalia, and yes, ever the curious religious studies and philosophy student Rome Lowell did ask an angel about his genitals, Aziraphale said they were an optional attachment, as they had no anatomical use for them, but he had added them for decorative purposes to match his presentation to fit in better as his earthly assignments picked up and generally, he got used to them. Rome hadn’t the chance to ask if he ever used them because then he promptly changed the conversation and turned back on the ears of the nail salon artists. The point was, there was a definite chance that nude Crowley would look less like a Ken doll and more like a genderfluid human, and Rome felt obliged to defend his decency when he was too drunk to have the agency to do so himself.

[5] Rome also used the short trip across the villa to observe Aziraphale’s left hand. She recognized the gold and titanium wedding band as the match to the one Crowley was wearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Crowley and Aziraphale remember the events that led to them getting married? Will Rome have to deal with the fallout if they don't? Can she? How are Beelzebub and Gabriel going to react with whatever information Hastur might provide from that meeting? All that and more in the next chapter.
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for reading. I appreciate your continued support. I always appreciate it when you respond to my writing, be it through comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions. I especially adore your comments. I love feedback and getting to interact with you and hear your thoughts, opinions, and what you're looking forward to in the future! Thank you again!


	14. What Did You Bury? I Will Not Ask And Neither Should You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after a special night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I really appreciate your continued interest in this fic!

WHEN CROWLEY AWOKE the next morning, his first cognizant thought was the pounding in his head. He hadn’t gotten so drunk he passed out before sobering up since the Hundred Years War, and now the pounding head informed him that his streak had ended, and he felt like shit to boot. He didn’t want to open his eyes, he knew that opening his eyes would make everything worse, so he elected to keep them closed. Okay, so he was in a bed. That was obvious from the massive pillows he was wrapped around, the mattress under him, and the covers on top of him. All things considered, he had fallen asleep in worse places. The bed was comfortable, the air was slightly too cold outside of the cocoon of blankets and pillows, and he could easily see himself spending another fortnight as he was, sleeping off this headache and then some. He nestled deeper into the pillows, and the pillows sighed. Then, Crowley went completely rigid as more sensory information started to process with considerable delay. His pillows were rising and falling gently, almost like a chest with an inhale and exhale. The pillows also had a muffled heartbeat, thrumming steadily. The pillows were both pliant and solid beneath him, letting off a warm and comforting heat like Crowley was hugging sunbeams. And then what he thought was a pressure on his legs being tangled in the duvet was actually the pillows extended. So, this is what Crowley determined with all this information: what he had misattributed to pillows was actually a person, and he was quite sure from the scent that the person in question was Aziraphale.

Crowley considered himself a quite intelligent person. He was crafty, cunning, imaginative, and as Aziraphale liked to say, wily. That being said, however, at the current moment, it seemed he suddenly lacked all of those traits. Crowley was trying incredibly hard to think of a way out of this situation. Still, between the hangover, his own mental crisis from the situation at hand, and the unhelpful sensory information and intrusive thoughts bursting through his stream of reasoning, he was failing quite spectacularly. Crowley’s mind was functioning somewhat like this: He needed to escape (ow) from Aziraphale (soft, warm) because if Aziraphale woke up (cuddles), then they would (ow) have to confront the (ow) realities of whatever had happened (comfy) the night before. However, his right arm was pinned (ow) beneath Aziraphale’s shoulder (warm, solid) and folded up, so his hand was centimeters from Aziraphale’s hair (soft, touch – _no touching_ – yes touch! Soft!). Even if he was able (ow) to extract his arm, his legs were still tangled with Aziraphale’s (soft, warm – _shut it_!). And even then, he was wrapped (ow) in in a lazy embrace (warm), as Aziraphale’s left arm trailed (ow) down his back and rested at his hip (skin! – _what?_ – skin!) and apparently on a small section of skin where (ow) the sleep shirt (comfy) that Crowley was wearing (ow) had ridden up. It didn’t help that the boxers (comfy) he was wearing were low on his hips, and they weren’t his (ow). They weren’t his (ow!). He wasn’t wearing his own underwear (oh no). Oh, Go- Sat- _somebody_ , what had happened last night? (OW!)

Crowley was in far too much pain to attempt a miracle out of bed, his head was throbbing so terribly he could barely process inner thought, let alone curing his hangover and getting out of bed. So, he had to find another way to ease himself out of this predicament. Perhaps, knowing _how_ he got into the predicament was worth considering.

Last night they had gone out to dinner at the Michelin-starred French restaurant. Aziraphale had ordered the tasting menu for two with fourteen courses because, of course, he did, and they had split a bottle of a recommended red wine of the excellent vintage. In a feat of something, be it irony, ineffability, or a bad sense of humor, the first course of this menu had been oysters.[1] As they ate, Crowley took one bite and then passed on the rest of his dish to Aziraphale. The food was good, spectacularly good, but that was why Crowley had insisted on Aziraphale having more. Whenever Aziraphale ate, it was an experience for both of them. Aziraphale ate very procedurally and intentionally, making sure there was enough of everything he wanted to taste on his utensil before closing his perfectly bowed pink lips around it. Then he would make a little noise, a sigh of pleasure, or if it was particularly good, a small grunt of ecstasy. Food was fine, it wasn’t Crowley’s indulgence of choice, but he liked it well enough. For Aziraphale, it was his favorite indulgence except for perhaps a good book, and while watching Aziraphale read was an experience of a different sort, Aziraphale eating was how Crowley entertained himself that night. Crowley, therefore, had a complete recollection of dinner because he had mentally cataloged everything that Aziraphale ate and his following reaction with considerable fidelity.

He remembered how the sound Aziraphale made when he had eaten the osetra caviar was slightly rougher than the one he made when eating octopus in bearnaise. There had been salmon seared on dry ice, which Aziraphale found positively delightful. The delicate fregola pasta with a heavy fish sauce had caused an obscene sound in the back of the angel’s throat, which he made again but with only more enthusiasm two courses later when he tasted the artichoke and black truffle soup with mushroom brioche. The marbled pluma de bellota Iberico with swiss chard, cannellini beans, and huckleberry was cooked to such perfection that Crowley was quite sure Aziraphale’s little sounds kicke them out for indecency. Still, they stayed, and the courses continued to come. By the time the gastronomical experience was over with the chocolate malt to end all chocolate malts, Crowley wasn’t sure he could walk.

Crowley had always liked seeing Aziraphale eat. He might say it was the demonic pride of having an angel indulge in something hedonistic, bordering on gluttony, but it wasn’t that. It was that eating made Aziraphale so incredibly happy. Happy in a way that Crowley liked to be in the presence of. In a way that Crowley was so completely fascinated by. His happiness often caused a bit of a rush of adrenaline to spike through Crowley with some of the little noises he made, and watching Aziraphale experience the earthly culinary pleasures had to be an earthly pleasure by itself. Aziraphale liked all food, he liked little pastries from cafes and boxes of fish-and-chips from places that were essential a hole in a wall, and massive American burgers at themed diners. But it was the places that expected for food to be a delightful experience and not just a way for a human to sate their survival urges that Aziraphale shined. Where Crowley became even more fascinated with the angel’s pleasure than when he was dining elsewhere, even the Ritz. How Crowley had managed to fairly split the bottle of red and not drown the whole thing to dull the fluttery, flighty feelings was an accomplishment he deserved some recognition for.

They then had been driven by a private car arranged by the concierge to the hotel across the street where the magic show was. Mostly because Aziraphale insisted Crowley already had too much to drink, and Americans were tetchier about alcohol than they were other reasonable things[2]. The magic show was, well, a magic show. It was overdramatic and full of mentalist acts, sleight-of-hand, and deception. Aziraphale was wholly enraptured and entertained by the entire performance. He spent the whole show with that sort of pleasing light in his eyes, laughing and clapping at the appropriate times. Crowley couldn’t care less about how broken things were magically fixed[3], or that one guy somehow had a hundred birds in his jacket, but Aziraphale enjoyed it. Near the end, in the final and most spectacular act, the tension was building, and Aziraphale grabbed at the armrest. Of course, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed that Crowley had draped an arm along with that armrest, meaning when he gripped the edge of the armrest, he actually gripped Crowley’s wrist. Upon the contact, Crowley froze. It was hard at first, but it seemed Aziraphale instantaneously abated into a grip that was merely firm. If Aziraphale realized he had grabbed Crowley, he didn’t act like it, and his hand stayed curled around Crowley’s bony wrist until the curtains closed. That entire time, it would have been an understatement to say that Crowley was having some sort of crisis. Not a day ago, Aziraphale had wiped the chocolate off his face, and now he was a slip of the fingers away from holding his hand. Crowley didn’t know what was worse: that none of this physical contact bothered Crowley, or that it definitely bothered Crowley but in a different way. It made this feeling of emptiness in his chest that made him think part of him, a treacherous, traitorous part of him, wanted _more_ touching.[4]

They had gone back to Caesar’s Palace, it wasn’t even ten in the evening yet, and Crowley wanted a drink. Aziraphale had suggested that they took advantage of one of the many bars and lounges at the massive hotel resort, mostly, so they didn’t disturb the resting Rome. So, they had gone to one of the drinking lounges with dark wood, silver, and golden décor. They had ordered a bottle of champagne to split first, Dom Perignon, and they had settled into one of their comfortable discussions, a light back-and-forth. And Crowley remembered the entire time his mind was torturing him with the thoughts of Aziraphale’s hands touching him as he watched the angel gesture his way through an argument. His mind also supplied the little sounds Aziraphale had made at dinner before, and suddenly, half a bottle of champagne wasn’t enough alcohol. And so, he had ordered an Old Fashioned because he needed a decent liquor, and the bourbon that they used was called _Angel’s Envy,_ and it was too enticing not to order. And Aziraphale had gotten some Cucumber Refresher with gin and sparkling wine. They kept drinking, and that’s when everything in Crowley’s memory went completely fuzzy. They had some serious conversation Crowley didn’t remember. Then they were in a vehicle, at an office, in a garden, in an elevator, and in the villa. And it seemed somewhere between entering the villa, and now, they had both gotten dressed and ended up in bed together.

They hadn’t… _surely,_ they hadn’t. Angels didn’t do that, or rather, they weren’t supposed to.[5] Demons were supposed to, lust is a sin and all, but Crowley had tried to do it once or twice with a random human back when it was still a relatively novel concept and failed to see the appeal of mashing fleshy bits together. So, really, it had to be some other reason? Maybe he had gotten so drunk he couldn’t sober up safely anymore and had to borrow Aziraphale’s clothes or sleep in his suit or nude, perhaps he threw up on his suit. But then why was Aziraphale here? And asleep, Aziraphale didn’t sleep. Maybe he also got so drunk they couldn’t miracle sobriety, and they had to do it the human way. And Rome probably wouldn’t loan her bed with one of them, so they had both slept here – it was huge – and somehow ended up in this embrace in the sort of way a drunken body acts of its own accord.

Crowley stilled for a moment as Aziraphale shifted in his sleep, the hand on Crowley’s hip, finger barely touching an exposed sliver of skin, moved upwards by several inches. It pulled the shirt with it until suddenly Aziraphale’s entire hand was resting gently on the flesh of Crowley’s side, just above the crest of his hip. It was mortifying, Crowley was mortified, and he promptly stopped breathing for an entire thirty seconds as he came to terms with this touching and then carefully resumed. Aziraphale’s hand was so _warm_ against the sensitive expanse of flesh. His fingers were soft and firm at the same time, plumper than they were bony, but unyielding all the same. There was a feeling, a very odd, very undemonic feeling, irradiating from Aziraphale’s hand. Crowley didn’t know if it felt angelic if it was, it was the barest traces of holy light and warmth, but it was… bubbly. Yes, that best described the feeling that spread from where Aziraphale’s hand was, it was like the champagne they had too much of, sparkling and sweet, but it was a feeling on his side rather than his tongue. And once Crowley became aware of that touch, he soon became starkly aware of all the other touching that was happening. His legs were tangled with Aziraphale’s, trapped between the angel’s heavy and supple thighs. His legs were bare from about the upper-thigh down, and so were Aziraphale’s, and from that point down, it was just flesh touching flesh, and it was warm. Of course, Crowley had an arm thrown around Aziraphale’s thankfully covered midsection. Crowley didn’t think his heart could handle beating if he was touching any more of Aziraphale’s bared flesh, although even with the shirt, he could feel the soft and warm skin over layers of something more solid and unyielding. Crowley’s head was pillowed against Aziraphale’s chest, and he could hear that steady and slow heartbeat and feel the filling and emptying of lungs as Aziraphale’s corporeal form performed its human functions without intention. Beneath the life of the human form, Crowley could feel the edges of the divine form anchored to it, also resting and letting off the soft feeling of holy grace. It smelled like peaches and sunshine.

Crowley had to leave Aziraphale’s embrace this very moment, lest the things that he didn’t like to think about but usually ended up thinking about became unavoidable thoughts. It was inevitable that they would have to confront whatever drunken debauchery they had gotten up to the night prior, probably being Crowley’s fault in some way. Suddenly it was much more pressing that Crowley extracted himself from all the touching and the feelings and pretended like what had happened was meaningless. He didn’t care, lest Aziraphale suddenly worry that there was something significant about what had happened the night prior. So, slowly, Crowley opened his eyes. The room was dark; thankfully, the light would have been like a hammer and nail to the inside of his mind, he knew, he was barely surviving the pounding in it as it was. The massive blackout drapes were drawn, the lights were off, the door was closed, and two glasses of water sat on the bedside table. It was the human’s doing, he realized. Why did she have to be so _kind_? It was infuriating. Crowley tried to shift gently out of Aziraphale’s grasp, hoping perhaps the angel who rarely slept would be sleeping deep enough he could get away without being known. This plan failed immediately as Crowley pulled his left hand to his face and saw a ring sitting on the third finger: gold with a narrow row of diamonds around the center of the band. Crowley’s mind made a series of incredibly complex, overlapping calculations that resulted in him launching off the bed with considerable force and landing hard on the carpeted floors as if he could leap away from the ring on his finger. The ring, of course, being on his finger, and his finger remaining attached, happened to follow.

It had to have been a miracle that Crowley didn’t perform, but Aziraphale didn’t wake up. He shifted as if he missed the absence of Crowley’s bony, angular form draped around him, and stirred, but he drifted back to sleep. Careful and free, Crowley went to the set of water glasses, picked one up, and drained it in massive gulps. A horrible taste washed out of his mouth. The water hydrated what was dry and parched from tongue to stomach. He drained the glass and considered drinking the second when he realized he was hearing music coming from a different part of the villa. Rome was awake, and if she was awake, he could ask her what the hell had gone on last night. He grabbed one of the plush robes in the bathroom and threw it on over the borrowed underwear he was wearing and wandered out, barefoot, across the tiled floors of the villa.

The rest of the villa was bright, windows cracked enough for the warm yellow light to stream through and reflect off of pale marble. If Crowley had to guess, it was well into the afternoon. He squinted and blinked through the light but continued his way to the music. As he got closer, he could make out both the harmonies she was playing on the piano and the fact that she was singing. Usually, music combined with light and a hangover-induced migraine was a recipe for suffering, but that wasn’t what happened when Crowley heard the singing. He stopped dead in his tracks in the atrium, leaning against one of the marble columns for support, and listened. The piano was delicate and well-tuned. Her voice was strange, less humidity than when she spoke. It was heavy and sweet, but much more melodic, of course, she _was_ singing. She wasn’t singing like she wanted to hit hard notes or lay on thick sustains to prove something, she was just singing, and she missed some notes, but she was singing.[6] He stood there for a while, completely entranced and silent at the sound of it. He couldn’t say he usually listened to that sort of music,[7], but the sweet and haunting way Rome sang it made it worth the listen.

“You can sing,” Crowley croaked once she finished, the keys drawing out their final chord. Rome startled and stiffened. He had managed to sneak up on her, it seemed.

“Anyone can sing,” Rome said, swiveling around on the bench.

“But yours is tolerable.”

She frowned with concern, as if his compliment was concerning, it probably was, “You alright? Need more water?”

“Stop being nice,” he said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand he had free. Rome stood up with a bit of relief on her face and took the water glass from him.

“No,” She said with a relieved smile, and she disappeared to the kitchen, returning with a full glass of water a moment later.

“What time is it?”

“A bit after two in the afternoon,” Rome said. “You’ve been asleep for nine hours.”

“What happened last night?” Crowley asked, his voice was grating and raspy.

“A lot of things,” Rome said. “And, to be honest, I only got the tail end of your night when you stumbled here drunk and disorderly.”

“What happened?” he repeated.

“I really think we should wait until Aziraphale’s awake,” Rome said. “It’s only fair-”

“Just, just, just,” Crowley stuttered and then sighed, managing a slow and careful, “Just tell me who I married.”

“You haven’t figured it out?” Rome asked. She smiled sadly for a flicker and then forced it down, trying to be polite. “Well, uh,” Crowley was looking at her desperately, hoping she would speed up. Apparently, his desperation was unbecoming of a demon because she pouted with sympathy, which he did not need,[8] and sighed, “Oh, honey, you married Aziraphale.” Crowley didn’t remember sitting down, but he must’ve been guided with hovering hands to the nearest couch because he realized Rome was crouching in front of him and looking compassionately concerned. He didn’t need a human to be worried about him, he was a demon, he was the Serpent of Eden. Beyond that, he was the sort of suave and intimidating figure that earned dark looks in public from respectable members of society. He was not the sort to have a pregnant God-chosen woman worrying over his wellbeing, and yet. He realized he was babbling, “Uh–whuh–hah–uh-hmm-“ and quickly shut up.

“Do you need anything? Coffee? Tea?” She offered after a beat of silence.

“Alcohol,” He said. “All the alcohol.”

“Alcohol’s got you into this mess, honey, and it sure ain’t getting you out of it,” she said.

“We – did – was it – did we - was there any – where did my pants go?”

“You took them off because you were drunk. Both of y’all were very, very, very drunk. Too drunk to get a chance to know each other in the biblical sense. If that’s what you’re wondering,” Rome said after a moment. He sighed. “Drink up, I was planning on ordering lunch for myself soon, you sure you don’t want something like coffee?”

Before Crowley could answer, his name was called from a different room by a confused voice. Aziraphale was awake.

“I’ll get him, you sit pretty,” Rome ordered, and Crowley didn’t have the strength to disobey.

Five minutes later, Aziraphale came out, also wrapped in a bathrobe, with a half-drank glass of water. He sat down on the opposite end of the couch that Crowley was on. He was squinting and blinking around with the dreariness of first waking up with a hangover. He looked a bit of a mess in the afternoon light, his hair stuck up every direction, looking almost bright yellow as the sun caught it. Once they were both settled, Rome retrieved a white bag and sat across from them.

“Alright,” she sighed. “So, what do y’all remember about last night?”

In overlapping conversation, missing their usual bickering and bantering as they were both fighting headaches, Crowley and Aziraphale determined that their memories got foggy somewhere after between the last glass of champagne and the second cocktail.

“Well, I can fill in some of the gaps,” Rome said. “Or, this can,” She set the bag on the coffee table.

“Weddings?” Aziraphale asked dumbly. “We attended a wedding?” Rome rolled her eyes.

“We got married, angel,” Crowley sighed. “Look at your left hand.”

Sure enough, when Aziraphale looked at his left hand, he saw the ring on it. Yellow gold with a narrow black titanium strip. “Oh,” he said stiffly. There was no wide smile, there was no laughing with joy. Crowley wasn’t expecting those reactions, but now that they weren’t here, he suddenly felt sicker than the hangover.

“There’s a marriage license,” Rome said. “And an album of pictures. And a disk with video footage of the ceremony. I haven’t looked at any of it, by the way, so don’t ask me what’s on it. You came back at about three in the morning, barely standing up straight. You weren’t coordinated enough to walk without help, let alone make yourselves sober the fast way. It was a bit like herding cats, but the two of you decided to sleep it off.”

“Together?” Aziraphale asked.

“I couldn’t’ve pried y’all apart if I had a crowbar,” Rome replied. “So, do you want me to leave? Because I could, you know, go for a walk for an hour or two, check myself in at the spa, check out the roman baths, something, you know?” They both looked at her inquisitively. “So that you can talk about what happened in private.”

“We didn’t at all say why we decided to get married?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, you said you wanted to do a human thing you hadn’t before,” Rome said. “But that was everything I knew for certain, you were pretty giggly about it. Don’t ask me to rationalize your drunken logic, I can’t.” Neither of them said anything, so Rome elected to stand up, “I’m going to leave. I have my phone on me. I’ll be back in an hour or so, text me if you need me to be gone long.” She disappeared, and the door closed, and Aziraphale and Crowley did not move. They did not speak. They sat at either end of the couch in a weighty, awkward silence.

“So…” Aziraphale said, drawing out the vowel for a very long while. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“Not particularly,” Crowley said shortly.

Aziraphale was silent for another moment before hesitantly suggesting, “Don’t you think we should?”

“You heard the human,” Crowley said. “We just got drunk and decided to try a new human thing. We probably thought it was funny at the time.”

“So, you’re absolutely certain that this was… drunken debauchery?” Aziraphale asked rigidly.

“What else would it be?” Crowley said. “I mean it’s not like we-”

“Right, yes, of course.”

“We’re friends,” Crowley insisted. _Just friends_ , he implied.[9] He wasn’t ready to deal with thinking about any alternative.

“Friends,” Aziraphale repeated in agreement.[10]

Neither of them was particularly satisfied with this conclusion, they were rapidly approaching, but neither of them was prepared to take the mortifying step of admitting that in case the other one was quite satisfied with it. And so, they continued along the tracks of miscommunication. Crowley didn’t mention the fact that he and Aziraphale had been tangled up when they woke up. Aziraphale didn’t say that there was documented evidence of the ceremony they could view to get a better understanding of their intoxicated mindset.

“So… do you want to…” Crowley trailed off. “Get rid of the evidence?”

“No,” Aziraphale squeaked. Crowley puzzled at him, and the angel tried to make up a reasonable excuse for his response, “Well, er, might be funny, and all, to keep it.”

“Funny,” Crowley repeated. “Right, yeah, I’m sure we’ll laugh about this in ten years or something.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “And there’s no need to bother with all that messy divorce business. I mean… it’s not like it changes anything… unless you were planning to get married sometime soon?”

“Who would I get married to?” Crowley asked. “It’s just some legal paperwork, it’ll be obsolete in a century.”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale said. He looked down at his hand, “And I, er, suppose we really have no use to wear these.”

“Right,” Crowley said, nodding.

“So, I’ll just-” both Crowley and Aziraphale watched in horror as Aziraphale took off the wedding band.

Crowley swallowed, “Right,” he agreed. He reached for his own ring. This was stupid, it’s not like he wanted to be married to Aziraphale, he insisted to himself. They were friends, it was a relationship built up to this point over millennia, solidified and reliable. He knew what they were and what they weren’t. He was happy with where they were at. He didn’t want to have this become another one of those moments risked everything. He didn’t want to think about how this could go wrong, words of the past haunting him.[11] He refused to think about the alternatives.[12] He took it off. Aziraphale decided to read in one room, and Crowley chose to watch a movie in the other. Rome, for no placeable reason, felt like she wanted to kick something from the other side of the resort.

* * *

THE LOST MEMORIES would return, albeit under a saccharine haze, like drenched in a fog of misted molasses. They wouldn’t be recalled in perfect clarity, no memories are, but there would one day be a point that the emotions, intentions, and actions of that forgotten night were known to both of them. This would not be for a while, unfortunately, when the pair of them confronted the root of the issue. As for the night that was forgotten, it went something like this:

Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting in the corner of the drinking lounge. It was at its peak business on a Friday night, and so the fact that they had such private seating at all was a miracle. They were splitting a bottle of exceptionally nice champagne, talking about the magic show. Aziraphale was speaking about the performance with excitement, recalling his favorite bits with wild arm gestures. Crowley lounged back in his chair, champagne precariously held with few fingers, explaining how the magic happened or generally just being contrary. Aziraphale charged ahead in his laudation of the show. Whenever he became particularly lively, Crowley was compelled to take a large gulp of champagne and push deeper into the chair. The champagne finished quickly, but Crowley was still feeling particularly overwhelmed, desiring something to take the edge off and ever in denial that the solution was not alcohol.

“I think I’d like to try one of the cocktails,” Crowley suddenly said. “What do you think?”

“I suppose we could,” Aziraphale said. Usually, Crowley liked to order a bottle of liquor and drink from it as he pleased, but he was all for trying something new. Five minutes later, they each had a new drink, a different drink, and Aziraphale didn’t think it was worth continuing the review of the magic show, mostly because he had exhausted that conversation topic even in his own opinion. He had expected for Crowley to change the subject by now, but it seemed that whatever was on Crowley’s mind, he wasn’t eager to share. Which was fine, Aziraphale was fine, except he didn’t like it when Crowley felt like he couldn’t confide in Aziraphale. So, Aziraphale asked, “Are you alright, my dear?”

“Mmph?” Crowley hummed in response, looking up at Aziraphale in surprise. He cleared his throat, “I’m fine, Angel.”

“Because you seem like you have something on your mind,” Aziraphale continued.

“Just thinking about… stupid human things, really,” Crowley admitted. “You know, we’re doing this bassinet list thing for the Madonna, got me thinking about what I’d like to do if… you know, before the apocalypse happens _again_ , if it will.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Well… is there anything on your list?”

“Some-” Crowley swallowed his drink down. “Some things.”

“Like?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley called over a waitress to get a refill. “Crowley?”

“Oh, you know, stupid things. I never learned how to scuba-dive.”

“You don’t need to breathe,” Aziraphale reminded him. “You don’t need to know how to scuba-dive.”

“I know,” Crowley sighed. “It’s the- the experience of it, you know what I mean? Doing something to do it, not because you need to. Like why you eat, and I sleep!”

“Right, yes, of course,” Aziraphale said. “So why, scuba-diving?”

“Dunno,” Crowley said, “Just a thing. Haven’t done it. Interesting in theory.”

“Any other things that you haven’t done but consider interesting in theory?” Aziraphale asked with an open and inquisitive expression, eyebrows quirked. Crowley drained his glass, deciding whether or not to answer that question as he ordered another. The vertigo of alcohol made him suddenly quite receptive to the idea.

“Loads of things, I think,” Crowley said finally. He started waving his hand in a circle hoping the centripetal motion would stir his mind with ideas, “You know, there are the uh, single bicycle things that the clowns – unicycles!” he snapped in realization. “I could learn to ride a unicycle. And then there’s juggling objects, weird objects, chainsaw, never juggled a- never _used_ a chainsaw or done any of those lumberly actions, really. And kayaking, never been on a kayak, I’ve been on boats, sure but not a kay- funny word, isn’t it? Kayak. Kaiuack.” The waitress came over with the next pair of cocktails and a perfectly friendly smile as if he didn’t sound as strange as he did. He stared for a moment at the cherry floating in his drink. “And then, er, there’s apparently this thing humans like to do, tying a cherry stem with their tongue, never done that, never tried, probably could, I can do _weird_ things with my tongue. What else: never held hands with anybody.”

“We’ve held hands!” Aziraphale protested suddenly.

“Well, I mean,” Crowley shifted in his seat and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “We’ve _touched_ hands and shaken them, but you know never held hands for the sake of holding hands.”

“What about Adam? We both took his hand when-”

“That was different, he was a kid, and you know, the antichrist, during the apocalypse. It was a symbolic, supportive-y thing, not a- you know. Humans do it when there’s no danger, they do it for fun or just, you know, to do it. No reason why they do it. Why _do_ people do it? They’re just hands and all, probably sweaty.”

“Touch can be soothing,” Aziraphale said. “Grounding, as I understand it. Humans seem to enjoy it under the right circumstances. It’s a comfort, like a soft bed or a good book.”

“Have _you_ held hands?” Crowley asked, suddenly far too interested. He knew the angel was not as averse to touch as other angels.

“I have interacted humans in a variety of ways,[13],” Aziraphale said. “And perhaps sometimes that includes holding their hands.”

“Have you ever done it because you wanted to do it just to do it?” Crowley asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question,” Aziraphale said.

“Whenever you’ve touched a human, did you do it because the human asked – because _they_ wanted to do it or because _you_ wanted to do it?”

“Well, I did want to help, satisfy, or comfort them,” Aziraphale said. “But I suppose I’ve never touched a human for my own sake, I don’t have those same desires for humans.”

“That’s my point! Why do they want to be touched? Is there like a hardwired human-y thing where touch is a good thing? Because they touch each other all the time! With-with-with all the hand touching and shaking and holding, and the, the uh, the kissing! Mouths all pressed up together, sharing tongues and spit, biting at each other’s faces. What’s the appeal?”

“Well, it isn’t just a human thing. All manner of God’s creatures with enough brain do it. There’s a reproductive component, and then there’s also a nurturing component. It’s a social thing, I believe. A way to communicate. I suppose it’s different for us, you know. We do have physical forms, but we originated with abstract forms, so there’s no ingrained need. Not to mention, touch was a bit… more dangerous.”

“Right, impurity, taboo, explosions, all that,” Crowley agreed, absently remembering the feeling of their metaphysical forms barely brushing past one another as they switched forms. He gave an involuntary shudder. “So, it’s like food or sleep, then. We don’t have the urge or the need to do it. But, I mean, I know why they eat and drink and sleep, I can get it. I don’t get it for the touchy stuff.”

“So, why do you want to do it?”

“I mean, curiosity, somewhat,” Crowley said. “I don’t get it, but I feel like I’m missing out on something that I don’t understand.”

“Well,” Aziraphale took a steadying sigh. “ _I_ could hold your hand.”

“Here?” Crowley asked. “Now?”

“Would that bother you?”

“I- we- uh- well- probably.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sank a little.

“Becauseweareinpublicandsittingoneitherendofthistable,” Crowley said in a sudden rush.

“Sorry?” Aziraphale asked.

“I just, you know, don’t want to do it _wrong,_ ” Crowley said. “Or in public.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “A rain check, then?”

“Ye- oh- um- okay, sure.”

“Any other things?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley took several deep gulps of his bourbon-base cocktail.

“Marriage,” Crowley blurted.

“You want to get married?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly comically surprised.

“What?” Crowley gaped. Then he was a bit more rational. “No.”[14]

“But you just said-”

“Yeah, well, it’s a- you know I understood it back when it was all finances and dowries and social expectations and ‘be fruitful and multiply’ but it isn’t that way anymore, is it? Like it’s some of it-”

“It’s love, Crowley,” Aziraphale said stiffly. “I can’t expect you to really understand.”

Something about Aziraphale’s choice of words was suddenly very grating, “But – I mean – tax benefits! And if it just loves, then why do half of them end in divorce?”

“That’s an outdated statistic,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, so I can’t encourage you to wear something a bit less 19th-century, but you can correct my statistics? I bet my statistic is newer-”

“Clothing and statistics are completely different concepts when it comes to age! And menswear hasn’t changed fundamentally, really, it’s not like I’m dressing like a regency dandy-”

“Just because the staple pieces haven’t changed doesn’t mean that the textiles or the shadows – shadows? Not shadows, er, shapely bits – silhouettes! Yeah, silhouettes change, and there are shifts in pattern and structure and fabric-”

“All of that just seems too bothersome,” Aziraphale shook his head.

“Well, that’s fashion, angel!”

“I don’t want – we were talking about getting married!”

“Wha – Uh - Right, yeah, I don’t-”

“I think it’s, well, you know a sort of subjective thing,” Aziraphale said. “You know, there are lots of different reasons why humans might get married. Culture, society, psychology, philosophy, religion, you know, personal love and legal reasons are common _now,_ but that’s not to say – it’s a dynamic thing.”

“I mean, humans don’t have to get married to love each other.”

“It’s a statement of commitment, I think,” Aziraphale said. “Meaning different things to different people, but, uh, most of the time, it does have to do with love. So, you know, it’s alright that you don’t understand.”

“Why- why- why do you think that I don’t understand?” Crowley asked.

“Well, I only meant that,” Aziraphale gestured at Crowley desperately, as if that was sufficient. It was far from enough, and Aziraphale realized. He sighed, “You don’t feel love.”

“Excuse me?” Crowley asked.

“I don’t blame you for it,” Aziraphale said, looking down at his drink. “You know, you… I’ve accepted it. And you do care in your own way, I would never doubt that-” He stopped suddenly, realizing that the entire lounge was perfectly still, the time had ceased altogether, and Crowley was looking aghast, horrified. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean to offend you-”

“Angel,” Crowley said, his voice was ragged and coarse like gravel as it rattled from his chest. “Just because I can’t _sense_ love doesn’t mean I don’t… feel it. Experience it.”

Aziraphale sighed, “Crowley, you – you can’t.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re a-” Aziraphale never had a chance to say the next word, _demon_ , because Crowley immediately stood up. He swayed slightly as his vision tunneled, and he tripped and stumbled his way out of the lounge, time resuming slowly as he made his exit. “Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, standing up and trying to follow after him, also with less coordination. He hadn’t realized while sitting and talking, how all the gin, wine, and champagne had affected him. It wasn’t a particularly dramatic chase, two drunken man-shaped beings stumbling after each other. Crowley was directionless as he left, ducking down random corridors and halls, trying to take stairwells. It was in a staircase that Aziraphale finally caught up to Crowley. He grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him around. “Crowley!” Crowley wanted something, but what he wanted, he didn’t know how to put to words or even decent actions. He did what he knew, what he had learned in Hell, and he grabbed Aziraphale and slammed him up against a wall. They were silent, staring at each other, gasping, trying to think through the leaden haze of alcohol. Their grip on the physical world was fading, metaphysical sensation and physical somehow blending together.

“What am I?” Crowley rasped. Waves were coming off of him, thick and black like tar. Aziraphale also felt something in the air around him. It wasn’t one blinding light, but millions of twinkling ones, the darkness between them, but there, all the same. It was scattered in constellations. Oh, what a fool he had been. A foolish coward.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said weakly. “I assumed that if – if you – then I would sense it. I never imagined I wouldn’t realize… I thought that if you – then you wouldn’t wonder about – then you would understand as I do. But - but if you’ve never felt it – not since – then maybe I-”

“What are you saying, angel?” Crowley asked.

“I…” Aziraphale began. “I want to look you in the eyes when I say it.” Crowley was no longer forcing Aziraphale into the wall, but he was standing close to him, gripping his lapels like a lifeline. Aziraphale tentatively lifted his hands to Crowley’s face and pushed his shades up into his hair, sighing gently when he saw the gold and black eyes. “I may – I think that I convinced myself that you can’t love.”

“Why?” Crowley asked.

“I – it’s cowardly, really,” Aziraphale admitted, averting his gaze for a moment. “You see, I, I was always afraid. You… I was afraid of… hurting you. I was afraid for myself at first, but, but _you_ – I – oh, _Crowley_.” He sighed. “I’m too drunk-”

“Just tell me, please,” Crowley begged.

“An angel loving a demon is… It’s more forgivable… I think – I _thought_. Angels are supposed to love, after all. A demon loving an angel, it’s… so I pretended - I denied - I said that it, it was ah, it was an only arrangement, it was business. Because then, I could have something instead of nothing. Even after I realized that I wanted-” Aziraphale stopped himself.

“What did you want?” Crowley asked.

“I wanted,” Aziraphale gulped. “What I shouldn’t want. I wanted what I couldn’t have. And I was so… I found what was safe, or so I thought, and I made myself satisfied with it. And even after – even now… when it shouldn’t matter… I was _convinced_ , Crowley.” He gave a weak laugh, “Creature of habit, I am. And that lead to me not seeing or feeling what was right in front of me.”

“Angel,” Crowley said in a soft little voice, his eyes were wide and glossy, and Aziraphale was looking in them, searching for a response. Aziraphale tried to convey it on his face, with his very being, radiating off of him in waves. Any human nearby would have felt butterflies, any angel would have been blinded, but Crowley was a demon. Aziraphale realized he could not use his face, he could not put it in words, and Crowley couldn’t feel it dance through the air. But there was another way, of course. Aziraphale was the one who grabbed Crowley this time, and he pulled Crowley in instead of pushing him away, for a first. He wrapped his arms around Crowley and held onto him, his face tucked in his neck. Crowley’s hands dropped from Aziraphale’s jacket and snaked around his waist, and he held him in turn. Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s back with one hand and his head with the other hand running through his short tresses. Crowley shuddered and hugged Aziraphale even tighter. That emptiness Crowley sometimes felt suddenly didn’t feel empty at all. It was overwhelmed to the point of bursting with the solid mass of Aziraphale’s corporeal form, the smell of his cologne, the gentle hand running through Crowley’s hair. While Crowley would have collapsed from the sensation if he wasn’t holding tightly and being held in turn, Aziraphale wanted more. It wasn’t enough really, Aziraphale wanted Crowley to know, to _feel_. He should have asked, they should have spoken about it before Aziraphale even attempted such a thing, but there was almost a primal urge from centuries of repressed emotion to finally let in free in the act of pure catharsis.

On the physical plane where most of the creation resides, humans, mainly, angels exist in a human-friendly corporeal form. While it is possible for them to bring their metaphysical form into the physical plane, it often causes quite a lot of horror on the physical side of things. As trees burst into flame and animals flee at the sight of what appears to be a many-eyed and many-winged creature, possibly with many heads or limbs or rotating flaming wheels. Therefore, doing so has fallen out of vogue.[15] Demons also exist in a similar corporeal form, their metaphysical form being a bit more like a lake of fire, dripping molten brimstone, waterfalls of blood, or an inky black void that sucks light up. For the angel and demon in question, their abstract forms are hard to describe in physical terms, especially as two humans can stare at the same metaphysical phenomenon and interpret them vastly different. Aziraphale is a being of pure light, so bright that a human’s eyes could melt out of their head, and mountains could shatter if he didn’t restrain himself. He could quickly warm and light the entire planet Earth, for there is a reason so many humans attribute him to smelling like sunshine. Crowley, meanwhile, is a being of darkness, was mostly made up of dark matter and energy in a metaphysical sense. Like Aziraphale, he was once a being of light, and then he Fell. And falling for Crowley was not unlike a supernova, the light not necessarily extinguished as much as released, a sudden act of imploding and exploding, fire being scattered and lost, darkness filling up what becomes a void of vacuum space, scattered with swirling stardust.

So, imagine, for a moment, this bright divine light suddenly wants to let this dark demonic void feel six thousand years of everything the angel ever felt. The angel wants to make the demon know the relief and enchantment from the first meeting. The growing companionship, the joy of a thousand conversations, desire to see, the need to protect. The realization standing in the burning remnants of a church that this wasn’t just a mutually beneficial arrangement but a relationship, that it wasn’t just fondness and companionship but _love_ , selfish and human and fiercely protective love. The sort of love that says ‘you go to fast for me’ because it sees the void hurtling towards its own annihilation. It can’t allow itself to feel, reciprocate, or have reciprocation if losing it all is an inevitability. And so, the angel reaches out, and it floods that demon with this blinding love, brighter than even holy light, and the stardust is illuminated like the day it burned, but it’s different now. It isn’t a void, it’s a nebula, a broad stroke of black, bordered by swirling arcs and strands made of gold, bronze, ruby, amber, honey, wine, sulfur, blood, and fire. And suddenly, they’re sharing, and the demon lets the angel know its story as well. The immediate infatuation from an act of disobedient kindness, the infuriating but endearing unwavering faith, the awe, the inspiration, the friendship, the devotion, the _annoyance_ , the ‘, please stay with me,’ the ‘I can’t live without you,’ the ‘you are all I have,’ the ‘you the answer to every question.’ Soon they’re tangled together in a metaphysical plane and a physical one, holding each other and laughing to the point of tears with something that could be considered ecstatic relief.

“Sssstupid,” Crowley hissed, seizing with laughter. “We’re ssssstupid, we’re sssssso sssssstupid.”

“I can’t believe, Crowley, since the _beginning_ – since the garden, why did you never say anything? Why did I never say anything?”

“You weren’t ready to go that fast.”

“Perhaps, but now, well… How fast do you think we can go?” Aziraphale asked. “Because I-I’ll wax poetic, I’ll sing, I’ll do anything you – oh, _Crowley_.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, the tumultuous vertigo of love, the shock of the night’s events, or something else entirely. Still, at that moment, the only thing Crowley could declare was his sudden need to do something, _anything_ that would make this feeling unignorable.[16]

“Marry me,” Crowley stated. “Can’t go much fassssster than taxssss benefitsssss, can we?”

Aziraphale chuckled, “Is that the reason you’ve settled on, then?”

“Well, that and… everything else.” Crowley admired. “You haven’t said yes.”

“Haven’t I?” Aziraphale asked. “Ask me again.”

“Aziraphale, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Yessssss?”

“Yes, of course, yes, you old serpent! As soon as possible, if we can.”

“Good thing we’re in Vegasssssss.”

* * *

[1] Specifically, Kushi oysters, which were delicate and meaty, and paired with a lemon and seaweed granita, which was a slightly sweet semi-frozen and coarse sorbet.

[2] Guns, for example.

[3] Replaced, they were replaced with something identical or never broken at all.

[4] Present Crowley remembered past Crowley’s agitated desires, surveyed that he was still plastered against Aziraphale in an embrace, and agreed that “be careful what you wish for” is prudent advice.

[5] The Nephilim, angel-human hybrids, were often touted as a sad reminder of what happened when angels _did_ , even if they did it with love and not lust. Nephilim was touted in Heaven, not unlike abstinence-only sex education is fond of showing grisly birth videos and graphic images of gonorrhea.

[6] _“I’ve heard there was a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you don’t really care for music, do you? It goes like this the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift. The baffled king composing Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah._

_“Your faith was strong, but you needed proof, you saw her bathing on the roof, her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you. She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, she cut your hair, and from your lips, she drew the Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah._

_“Baby I’ve been here before, I’ve seen this room, I’ve walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. And_ _I’ve seen your flag on a marble arch, love is not a victory march, it’s a cold, and it’s a broken Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah._

_“Well, there was a time when you let me know what was really going on below, but now you never show that to me, do you? But remember when I moved in you? And the holy dove was moving too? And every breath we drew was Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah._

_“Well, maybe there’s a God above, but all I’ve ever learned from love is how to shoot somebody who outdrew you. And it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not somebody who’s seen the light, it’s a cold, and it’s a broken Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.”_

[7] While sober.

[8] He, in fact, desperately needed sympathy, he just didn’t know to admit it.

[9] This, of course, was not true, considering that they were now married. But, denial can be incredibly potent.

[10] He was much in the same repressive state, and unprepared to admit it.

[11] _“Oh, he’s not my friend.” “You are Fallen.” “Fraternizing.”_ “ _You go too fast for me, Crowley_.” “ _I don’t even like you_!” “ _There is no ‘our side,’ Crowley._ ”

[12] He wanted to. He desperately wanted to indulge in the thoughts that were unavoidable from marrying and waking up in bed with your best friend, whose very existence challenged his desire for a strictly platonic relationship. He didn’t let himself. He wasn’t prepared to lose what he had.

[13] Indeed, Aziraphale had not only held hands. He had danced with humans, hugged humans, kissed humans, loved humans, and in general, accepted many forms of human social interaction with a tender embrace.

[14] Well…

[15] Saying ‘be not afraid’ before every human encounter and trying to talk them down from a mental breakdown really made being a Messenger of Heaven quite a complicated ordeal.

[16] It was a tragic and quite dramatic irony, therefore, that with the memory effects of all they had drunk that night and the three bottles of champagne they were yet to have; a bit of reality-altering denial; and the terrible consequences of free will and repressed emotion; that ignoring, forgetting, and pretending that the act from that feeling was precisely what happened the morning following and for a torturously long period of time after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!
> 
> As always, I appreciate your feedback, whatever form it may be in!


	15. Don't Let Me In With No Intention To Keep Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your continued support and for continuing to read! I appreciate all of you!
> 
> A few notes for this chapter:  
> \- Y'all I was born in Pasadena, and while I grew up somewhere less Californian, I've gone back several times, and I've always loved it. Every place that they go to in this chapter and the next I have been to personally and enjoyed.  
> \- More Gabriel and Beelzebub! I don't know why I like the pair of them collaborating so much, but it was entertaining to write their scenes together.  
> \- Rome bullies Crowley in this chapter :(  
> \- The Gabriel-and-Rome scene is maybe my favorite? I imagine him perpetually confused, especially because she's spent more time thinking about religion and faith in her puny human life than he has in 6000+ years ad infinitum.  
> \- Not a lot of footnotes, but some Very Important ones.
> 
> Thank you again, I hope you enjoy the update!

FDR PARK IN Philadelphia had just been a victim to a summer rain shower. Its paved pathways were ripe with puddles, the soil beneath the grassy knolls was soft and squelchy to the point of even being somewhat muddy. The benches here lining the paved pathways were always beneath a tree and made of concrete, shaped in a rectangle, much resembling an industrial cinderblock. With zir shoes and pantlegs splashed with mud and the benches, Lord Beelzebub was quite pleased with this meeting location but was less happy with the intel they would have to relay for the Archangel they were due to meet. On schedule with absolute precision, Beelzebub recognized the figure dressed in a pale grey running gear approach. He had changed his running garments from their last meeting, Beelzebub realized. His shoes were still a ridiculously perfect shade of white, even with the puddles of mud and water, they were without a scuff. The reason why was evident as soon as he ran across a puddle, his feet seemed to pound only atop the water, never breaking the surface as if the tension had become strong enough to support his weight by a miracle. He was still wearing the large and somewhat baggy pale grey sweatshirt, but he had changed out of the matching full-length running pants to a near-identical pair of matching running shorts. He must have put considerable effort into the sinewy calves of his corporal form because they twitched and rippled with every step forward in a way that seemed physically impressive.

Once the Archangel Gabriel slowed and came to a stop beside the Prince of Hell, ze made sure ze was looking ahead at the broken and cracked asphalt, or even further, to the puddles of mud and the crooked trees. Gabriel sat beside Beelzebub, both of them on opposite ends of the small concrete bench, stalk still, and poised perfectly upright, expecting the other to expand the seat so there would be more space. No such expansion occurred.[1]

Gabriel cleared his throat, “Did your, er, minion have any success?”

“Zzome,” Beelzebub buzzed. “Thizzzz human izzz… difficult. Hazzztur reported that she was not rezzzeptive to our typical methodzzz.”

“What does that mean?” Gabriel asked.

“It zzzzeemzzz that she is… polite,” Beelzebub reported. “She invited Hazzzztur to dinner, he’zzzz zzzztill a bit traumatizzzzed. She didn’t get scared, nor could Hazzztur zzzenzzz any weaknezzzzz. But Hazzztur did report that the human revealed zzzome thingzzzz. The traitorzzz planzzz are very long-term and difficult to underzzzztand, but they are for humankind, creazzzzion, good, and evil all at the zzzame time, apparently.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gabriel said. “Good and evil cannot be collaborative.” Neither Gabriel nor Beelzebub were aware of the hypocrisy of this statement, and in fact, Beelzebub nodded in agreement. If someone had gone up to the pair and cited all the evidence of how their conceptions of good and evil could, in fact, be collaborative[2], they would have been quite shocked. “But if they are doing this for humanity and creation, then our worst fears have been confirmed, they’re proactively working in opposition to The Great Plan.”

“How doezzzz releazzzzing refugeezzz oppozzzze The Great Plan?” Beelzebub asked.

“I’m not sure,” Gabriel replied. “Perhaps she should be questioned again.”

“I’m not rizzzzking another demon on her zzzzo zzzzzoon,” Beelzebub said. “Hazzztur hazzz been odd ever zzzzince their encounter.”

“Well, Heaven should try their hand at her,” Gabriel decided.

“Glad we’ve zzzzettled thizzzz.” Beelzebub nodded shortly. Neither of them stood up.

“How’s Hell?” Gabriel inquired.

“Zzzzame azzz alwayzzzz: Horrible,” Beelzebub said. “And Heaven?”

“Glorious,” Gabriel insisted. “I’ll meet you once we speak to the human.”

“Very well.”

* * *

ROME WAS FRUSTRATED. It was made clear that the married angel and demon did not have a proper conversation about their relationship and emotions and instead were electing to pretend that nothing had ever happened while still clearly tormented by the lack of resolution. What was worse was that Rome became a buffer between the two of them, they refused to be in the same room together unless she was there but maintained acting like it was healthy for them. They justified their behavior, of course, with the fact that when they had gone out, Rome had been visited by Hastur. Rome wanted to say a lot of things. She wanted to yell at them to have an actual conversation, and she would mediate it if that were what it took. Rome desperately wanted to argue that she had handled herself with the demonic visitor and didn’t need to be chaperoned with such little privacy, and Rome wanted privacy again. It seemed the only time she was allowed to be alone was in the bathroom, and when she was trying to sleep.[3] Crowley took to drinking more often than usual, while Aziraphale completely exempted himself from it. The behavior didn’t change at all when they got back on the road to head to Los Angeles, except Crowley didn’t drink. In spite of his temporary sobriety, somehow managed to drive even more recklessly than usual. About an hour in, they tried to put on some music, but the only disks Crowley had were Queen’s Top Hits. Crowley turned it off after the Bentley performed _Love of My Life, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, I Was Born to Love You_ and _You’re My Best Friend_ in immediate succession, completely defying the tracklist on the back of the CD case.

“I know how you feel, babe,” Rome said to the car, patting her leather seats after the music turning off resulted in what almost sounded like an exasperated groan from the engine. After another hour, they were now halfway through this jaunt, Rome was feeling quite frustrated with the tense silence. “You know I still think you’re overreacting a bit,” Rome said. “Surely, if this Hastur fellow wanted me deader than a doornail, that I would be. Clearly, so far, at least, Heaven and Hell just want information from me, and it seems like they have no clue about the pregnancy. Plus, you know, he booked it back to Hell lickety-split when I said your names, speaking of, why is he so scared of y’all?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Well, I think that has something to do with the events after the apocalypse. You see, we knew we would be punished by our respective sides for stopping Armageddon. And we were aided then as well by the prophecies of Agnes Nutter. So, she predicted that Heaven would execute me with Hellfire, and we assumed Hell would do the same for Crowley with Holy Water.”

“So, what did you do?”

“We, er, switched places, physical forms, specifically,” Aziraphale said.

“So, you looked like Crowley and went down to Hell and got drizzled on?”

“There was a bathtub, actually.”

“Oh, so Hell went full Baptist, I should’ve guessed,” Rome quipped. “So, they don’t know how y’all didn’t die?”

“I believe they assume it’s a side-effect of us ‘going native’ as they like to say,” Aziraphale said.

“Well, it’s certainly poetic,” Rome said. “How did you know it was gonna work?”

“We didn’t at the time, we believed it would, with Nutter’s prophecy,” Aziraphale said. “There was a genuine chance that when we tried to enter each other, we would explode.”

Rome snorted, “Yeah, I can see that. One of you inside the other, something’s likely gonna blow.” Her voice was laced with innuendo.

“Shut up!” Crowley exclaimed.

“Honestly, honey, it’s a reflex at this point,” Rome said. “So, sugar, how _do_ you make holy water? Do you boil the Hell out of it?” Crowley let out a long, exasperated groan.

“No, it’s just a matter of a holy blessing,” Aziraphale said, glancing concerned

“So, what would happen, theoretically, if you bless the rains down in Africa?” Rome asked with a teasing smile. Crowley groaned yet again, with more gusto.

“Okay! We’re playing the quiet game!” Crowley said. “The last one to speak wins!”

“Fine,” Rome said, a smile playing on her lips.

“Ha – you lose!” Crowley exclaimed.

“So, do you,” Rome responded.

“Fuck,” Crowley cursed. “Please, please, I am actually begging you, I will pull over and get on my knees if you need me to, please, shut up.”

“Whatcha gonna do on those knees?” Rome asked.

“I hate you, Madonna, I actually, properly hate you,” Crowley told Rome, sounding more broken than furious.

“I love you too, Anthony Just-a-J Crowley,” she said, reclining back in her seat, absolutely unbothered by his declaration, but backing off all the same. She admired her still-purple manicure. Crowley meanwhile tightened his grip on the steering wheel considerably and sighed. The car was relatively quiet for the rest of the way into Los Angeles, only being loud again once Crowley started complaining loudly about the horrible traffic. They eventually arrived at the hotel: The Ritz-Carlton Los Angeles in Downton Los Angeles. The suite in question this time for them to stay at was far less ostentatious than the Villa in Las Vegas. It had a foyer in the entryway, one door leading to the living space and the other to the bathroom. The living space consisted of a large corner couch beside the window, two queen-sized beds, a desk, a fully functional entertainment system, and a “kitchenette” that included a miniature refrigerator, microwave, and a little bit of counter space.

“So,” Crowley said once they were settled. “What are your plans for Los Angeles?”

“I wanted to see the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens,” Rome said. “Mostly, the library. They have over nine million books, a massive philosophy and theology section, and multiple rare collections.”

“You’re in Los Angeles, and you want to go to a library?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale was beaming smugly.

“Massive library! Rare books!” Rome insisted. “And there’s a huge botanical garden. Griffiths Observatory would be fun, I love planetariums. What else? San Diego Zoo, it’s like two hours from here, and I like zoos, they have Pandas. I’ve never seen a Panda. I wouldn’t mind seeing Santa Monica Pier, but I definitely want to go to the beach.”

“What about Disneyland?” Crowley asked.

“If you want to go to Disneyland, we can,” Rome said. “I don't really have a lot of nostalgia for it, nor am I a found of the entertainment monopoly, but maybe overpriced turkey legs are right up your alley. I just thought you would rip your face off if you had to go on the ‘It’s A Small World’ Ride.”

“Maybe,” Crowley said. “SeaWorld?”

“Only if y’all help me stage a heist and get all of those poor show dolphins to either a proper conservation center, or the wild,” Rome said.

“You want to steal dolphins?” Aziraphale asked.

“I want to go full ‘Free Willy’ on them,” Rome said.

“You sure they won’t consider that public indecency?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, so you can tease me about willies, but I can’t tease you about knees?”

“Let’s put this SeaWorld under a ‘likely not,’ then,” Aziraphale said, trying to redirect the conversation into something less dangerous. “Dolphin heists may not be… prudent.”

* * *

GABRIEL WAS CONCERNED after his conversation with Lord Beelzebub. As far as the other Archangels knew, he was still investigating the errant apparition. He had not yet revealed the connection to the wayward angel, Aziraphale, and his demon companion. He was hoping this could all be dealt with before the fact that the traitors were immune to typical methods of execution. He could have done what Lord Beelzebub did, and tasked the interrogation of the human Rosemarie Lowell with another, inferior angel. However, the demon that Beelzebub had assigned was reportedly affected by meeting Lowell, so perhaps taking measures into his own hands was the best way to be effective.

The Earth Observational Files showed that especially after her encounter with the demon Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale did not leave the human alone unless she was sleeping or doing disgusting human digestive procedures. Of course, Gabriel had an obvious way to circumvent this guard, dreams. He had presented himself in an apparition multiple times to humans over the years, so he decided the next time the human woman fell asleep, he would visit and interrogate her. And of course, she couldn’t run away from her own dreams once he visited her in an apparition and took control of her simple human mind for his needs, so there would be some protection instilled. And so, Gabriel, with his plan in place, waited. He did not have to wait very long, humans seemed to sleep often. The woman had fallen asleep in some sort of book place, her head on a table beside a pile of old books. He slipped into her head quickly and silently, drawing her mind to stay in the room she was located as he manifested himself in her dreaming state.

The woman, when she fell into a slumber and came to consciousness in a stable dream state. She rose up from her curled position on the table, looking down at her mortal body, still asleep on the physical plane. She stepped out of it carefully, cocking her head to the side inquisitively. She didn’t seem, well, humans tended to panic in these circumstances. She slowly turned around, surveying her surroundings, until she noticed and faced Gabriel, he smiled at her, “Hello!” He said brightly.

“Hello,” she echoed, smiling politely in turn. “Do you happen to have a name?”

“I am the Archangel Gabriel.”

“Ah,” She said, eyebrows rising upward as she looked him up and down. “I have to admit, I expected you a bit earlier.”

“Pardon?” Gabriel was suddenly confused. Why did the human expect him? Did Crowley and Aziraphale know they would be trying to contact her after determining she was the apparition?

“Oh, where are my manners?” She asked him he didn’t know. She placed a hand on her chest and offered him her other hand, “Rosemarie Lowell, of course, you probably knew that. Now, please, call me ‘Rome,’ Rosemarie’s a bit much.” Her hand floated in the air for a moment, outstretched. “Not a shaker?” She inquired after a moment, she dropped her hand. “Well, can’t say I’m surprised.”

Gabriel cleared his throat, “Do you know why I’m here?”

“My suspicions aside, I’d be quite pleased if you could enlighten me,” She said. “Oh, do you mind if we walk? I don’t like staying in one place while I sleep.”

“Walk, where?” Gabriel asked.

“Oh, I reckon we can walk anywhere,” Rome said. She smiled cheerily and started heading through the rows of musty and worn books. Gabriel followed her through the maze, up a set of stairs, to the outdoors. He had assumed he was in her dreamscape, and her mind had created the room she had fallen asleep in. It seemed now, however, as the sun warmed his face, that the whole world existed in her mind. Or perhaps, he wasn’t in her mind at all. That didn’t make sense, though, did it? She was clearly noncorporeal. He had done this many times, and it was always in their mind, often with the construction of their immediate surroundings, so they didn’t even realize they had fallen to sleep. She was completely lucid. She strolled across the paths lined with trees and statues. “So, Archangel Gabriel, why have I been, so to say, _graced_ with your divine presence?”

“You work for a demon and an angel, traitors of Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale and Crowley.”

“I work for them?” Rome asked.

“…Yes,” Gabriel said. “That is what we have observed.”

“And you’re quite sure you’ve correctly seen what you saw?”

“We saw it,” Gabriel said. “So, it was seen.”

“Well, if you’re certain,” The woman smiled. She didn’t say anything else, but Gabriel didn’t like her expression. It was too… undefinably familiar.

“Why?” Gabriel asked suddenly, remembering his whole reason for visiting this mortal, he usually didn’t make a habit of it. “Why are you working with them, and what are they planning?”

“You know, funny thing, I had a demon named Hastur asking the same sorts of questions just a few days ago,” Rome said. “So, either y’all should be collaborating on this because you’re seeking the same information or y’all’re already doing that, and poor Hastur didn’t get enough from me.” The human was looking at his face carefully from the corner of her eye, “Now, I’m no expert in angelic body language, but based on your reaction, I reckon it’s the latter.” She smiled. “Lucky for you, Archangel Gabriel, I aim to please. I think I spooked poor Hastur off, bless his heart[4], so please, state your questions. Heaven ought to know I _love_ questions.”

“Why are you working with Crowley and Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked.

“I needed a car, and they had one,” Rome said.

“That’s… it?” Gabriel asked. Rome rose an eyebrow, keeping the rest of her body and face completely the same. “But why did you agree to pretend to be an apparition of the Virgin Mary?”

“I never pretended to be an apparition of the Virgin Mary,” Rome said. “I visited Robert Kusach as myself. I didn’t give him my full name to prevent self-incrimination. Rosemarie has ‘Mary’ at the end of it, and there are lots of ‘Mary’s. He was the one who assumed my identity to be something holier than it was.”

“But why?”

“Surely, as an angel, you know the moral imperative of scripture to help others, especially those in need such as refugees,” Rome said.

“Of course,” Gabriel agreed.

“So, that’s why I did it,” Rome said. “I’m dreadfully sorry if I caused a bit of a fuss upstairs, making you all think that I was a rogue apparition of the Mother of God or summat. It was never my intention.”

“But – you’re working with our traitors to protect humankind and creation!”

“I am,” Rome agreed.

“Why?”

“Well, as a human who lives in creation, I have to say, not a fan of the alternative options,” Rome replied.

“Well, unfortunately for humans, this is bigger than them,” Gabriel said. “You see, the whole point of all of this was, one day, for the war between Heaven and Hell to be resolved in the final battle. But we cannot war until creation is destroyed and the horsemen are summoned, and we cannot have a war without War. It’s the Great Plan, it is what is written.”

“Of course, because you can’t just write _anything_ down and say it’s true,” The human said.

“Exactly! I’m glad you’re understanding,” Gabriel said. Her expression, however, was not pleased. Her eyes were the same sort of grey as storm clouds.

“Enough of my turf,” She looked around the sort of botanical garden they were standing in. “I’d like to visit yours - if you don’t mind.”

“Excuse me?” Gabriel asked. And then, all of a sudden, the world was shifting around them. Green and blue faded to white and grey, and suddenly they were standing in heaven, high glass windows showing the Los Angeles skyline in the distance. “What in God’s name-”

“So, this is Heaven?” The human twirled around, looking as if she actually comprehended the angelic realm, which had to be impossible. “I feel like you’ve redecorated recently, didn’t always look like a corporate office, did it?” She frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“How did you – you shouldn’t be here,” he said. She was a human, standing out in Heaven like a sore thumb. Her clothing was the same vibrant shades of the garden they had been standing in, and all of a sudden, she was like a dynamic focal point.

“You see, Gabe – can I call you Gabe? Oh, doesn’t matter, I will anyway – Gabe, I don’t know a lot of things, but what I do know is that what I’m doing is done with a clear conscience. I don’t doubt my role in things, but I think you should. I think you really, really should. Because, here’s the thing,” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think between you and me, I’m a bit closer to Her.”

“Ridiculous!” Gabriel exclaimed. “This is Heaven, the closest anyone gets to God.”

“Then where is she?” Rome asked.

“In her throne room,” Gabriel said.

“You sure?” Rome cocked her head to the side. “Seen her recently? Surely you have conferences at least once a century or something.”

“No – I – well, that’s what the Metatron is for. He relays Her orders to us.”

“Right, of course, of course,” Rome nodded. “But, I mean, don’t you ever wonder?”

“Angels don’t wonder.”

“Well, I pity y’all then,” Rome said. “You seem quite certain you’re right no matter what else someone might say. You may call it faith, many do, but it’s also dangerously close to fanaticism.”

“Are you _lecturing_ an Archangel?”

“Suppose I am,” Rome said.

“I could smite you.”

“You could try,” Rome smiled sweetly at Gabriel, her kindness was suddenly a challenge, one he desperately wanted to meet, and yet. “Before I wake up, I’ll leave you with a nugget: God’s working in Her mysterious, ineffable ways, and I don’t think you quite understand what that means. Otherwise, y’all’d’ve already been told why Aziraphale and Crowley think I’m so special.” She winked her eye, and she also winked out of Heaven. Gabriel was no longer standing in her head, but he was still here… in Heaven. Was he ever in her mind in the first place? This was… confusing. His head, even his abstract form’s thinking center, was starting to hurt a little.

“Gabriel?” Michael asked, appearing from somewhere. “Is everything alright?”

“The apparition was a false alarm,” Gabriel said suddenly. “A misinterpretation, a human seeing divinity in the inane.”

Michael nodded, “Uriel did suspect. I’m glad she’s right. Still, quite surprising, the humans did it themselves without our intervention.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed.

“Gabriel, you look… bothered,” Michael said.

“I was on Earth,” Gabriel said. Michael nodded in understanding. Gabriel cleared his throat, “Can I trust you to inform the others? I have paperwork to do.”

* * *

“GABRIEL ACTUALLY VISITED you?” Aziraphale asked.

“That is what I just said, with a very detailed account, mind you,” Rome agreed with a nod. They were back in the hotel. Upon waking, Rome had held off on sharing her dream with her angel and demon just so she could enjoy a bit more time in the rare book section of the library, combing through the collections. “I can see why y’all don’t like him. He reminds me a bit of an investment banker with suits that cost more than my college tuition, living in a penthouse with his trophy wife and fucking his secretary in their marriage bed when the wife is on shopping trips to Europe.”

Crowley wheezed, Aziraphale released a single snort and then seemed nervous about it. “He wanted the same information that Hell did in more detail, but so far, nobody seems to know about me being pregnant. But I do think Heaven and Hell might be having a bit of a temporary alliance to sort this out.”

Crowley sighed, “I thought they might.”

“Heaven and Hell collaborating?” Aziraphale said weakly. “Well, that can’t be a very stable alliance.”

“You and I-”

“Yes, Crowley, dear, but that was _You and I_. You are not Hell, and I am not Heaven.”

“I can’t say for certain if it’s all of Heaven and all of Hell and not maybe just some of the higher-up folks collaborating,” Rome said. “Didn’t exactly get to play twenty questions, if you get what I mean.”

“How did you satisfy Gabriel?” Aziraphale asked. Rome winced at his word choice but let him continue without a quip. “Angelic vision-dreams can only be ended by the angel performing the encounter.”

“So, a funny thing about that,” Rome said. “Gabriel might’ve visited me in my dream, but he didn’t have the control he was expecting to have. I woke up at my own fancy.”

“Excuse me?” Crowley asked.

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Aziraphale said. “Surely-”

“I think it’s a pregnancy symptom,” Rome said shortly.

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale tittered. “Perhaps.”

“Since you know, there was only one example of this in history, and the circumstances aren’t exactly well-documented. And, honestly, there’s no way of knowing that this is the same as then,” Rome added.

“What did you say to Gabriel?” Crowley asked.

“That I’m not an apparition, and I never intended to be,” Rome said. “And then I might’ve offended him by implying God wasn’t on her throne, and the Great Plan is a load of hogwash.”

“Why would you imply that to _him_?” Aziraphale asked.

“Because it’s what I think,” Rome said. “I’ve never felt further from Her than when I decided to drag Gabriel upstairs for a little show-and-tell, and just because you write something down and say it’s correct doesn’t mean it is. I mean, I take all forms of religious writing and storytelling with a bag of salt, and I think that’s universal. Anyway, are we going to San Diego or Santa Monica tomorrow?”

* * *

[1] Their actions, or lack thereof, were not unlike the human game “Chicken,” although neither was quite aware of what the intentional outcome of this event was. Perhaps some mild competition in spite of their greater modus vivendi, where the loser failed to maintain tolerance of the other.

[2] The evidence began when everything did and consisted of the arrangement and relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley, the Modus Vivendi between Gabriel and Beelzebub, and the dozens of secret connections between upstairs and downstairs. Good and Evil were far more intertwined than Good or Evil realized.

[3] A few times, Rome found herself taking a nap or spending half an hour in the bathroom to just get some space.

[4] Somewhere in Hell, a very confused, strangely ponderous and dangerously frenetic Hastur collapsed, gripping his heart, or where hearts were supposed to be in the corporeal forms. As demons stepped over his writhing body, he was flooded quite painfully with something warm and heavy. It seeped under his skin and made his demonic pustules and boils from his fall into a pool of sulfur suddenly start to heal over with new, baby pink skin. He was horrified, and it was only going to get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! As always, I appreciate your feedback in all forms. I especially adore comments and being able to interact and talk with you about the story. Let me know your thoughts, concerns, and general reactions! What did you think of Gabriel's interactions in this chapter with Beelzebub and Rome? What do you think is going to happen to Hastur? What do you want to see next between Crowley and Aziraphale?
> 
> Thank you again, until the next one!


	16. I Won't Deny I've Got In My Mind All The Things I Would Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jolene goes undercover, Crowley has a crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading. I always appreciate your continued support!  
> \- Jolene! What's she been doing? What dangers are there besides Heaven and Hell as we've already seen? Time to find out!  
> \- I hope my depictions of extremist Christianity don't offend anyone, but if you get offended by off-kilter depictions of Christianity, why are you reading _Good Omens_ fanfiction?  
> \- Texas is weird, y'all.  
> \- I LOVE the San Diego Zoo, I've been before, and I need to go again. Anyway, Rome gets to go to a Zoo and has fun!  
> \- The beach can be a transformative experience. The scene with Rome in the water was inspired somewhat by an Emily Dickinson poem I read ages ago with a similar premise of just getting devoured by the ocean.  
> \- Crowley is a self-deprecating pine tree.

THE ISSUE WITH the sort of religious extremism and organization that could provoke a group of people to be a danger to the Mother of Christ was that it also prompted a lot of other extremism. The Venn Diagram of racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, anti-Islamism, nationalism, and natalism with the groups that Jolene needed to find often came to resemble one overlapping circle more than anything. And therefore, the process of getting into their communities to investigate leads and determine exactly which group of white people with military-grade armaments were being indicated by Agnes Nutter was incredibly complicated. Weeks of research and trying to sit in on meetings and trying to avoid sundown towns throughout the south had only lead Jolene to lap the area a few times, feeling incredibly uncomfortable all the while, and only proceed through eliminations of what was definitely not what she looked for. Making such elimination was easy enough. It was not very usual for a group of fanatics to be very accurate, and so if they were awash with accuracies, it would be a strange turn of circumstance. That was something Jolene would be able to recognize.

She had gotten into a couple of bar fights along the way. The circumstances were usually the same: she was not allowed, and if she were caught eavesdropping, she would be forcibly removed. Sometimes with a gun in her face. The weapon did not stay in her face for very long. Disarming white supremacists and breaking their arms in the process was a fun bonus to her witch-assigned campaign to protect the second coming. That being said, she was definitely getting frustrated with this work of hers. All of the prophecies she was getting from Agnes were either, mostly, the old witch saying “holde thy horsief and reffir backe to [1788] et [266]” or some sort of prediction of something else happening that it was clear Jolene was not a part of. They weren’t horrible to read, it was good practice to know what the news headlines would be the following day. The prophecies were getting easier to read as time went on, which would come in handy if she ever needed to analyze one desperately quick. Furthermore, Jolene had to admit, sometimes, they were fun to read, even if she had no context for Agnes Nutter’s predictions, it was a bit like supernatural gossip, the old witch bitching the pot[1] from beyond the grave. As an example:

> [367] Inne the sitte wheyr sinners procpur and loverf uneyete  
>  sevrel bumps inneto the nihte, auld seekritf cum alligte  
>  Edynguard and serpente o’the applle submit to appetense  
>  Bownde with eternnel rhibanse, connsuemm the manfellenn danse

But even the hilarity of supernatural drunken weddings in Las Vegas didn’t wholly assuage the frustration of a hundred dead ends. Well, not a hundred, but in her frustration, Jolene was prone to a bit of hard-earned hyperbole. It was an emotionally challenging ordeal to continue to submit herself to circumstances of danger with the hope she would find what she needed to for the prophecies. Jolene was exhausted. The initial wonder of the peculiarity of her fate-assigned mission had decayed slightly, and it was now a matter of the actual work and effort she was putting into it that consumed her life. But, she knew, or rather, she hoped that it would be worth it in the end.[2]

Her next lead brought her to Polk County, Texas. It was the execution capital of the United States, where Texas's death row was located. If you looked at a map of the United States looking at the death statistics of each country and searched for deaths related to a legal intervention, Polk Country would light up like the fourth of July, which was still over a month away. It did not feel pleasant in Polk County and the nearby town of Livingston. Something about the air and the grass and the sky sight Jolene’s skin itching and crawling. That was a good sign, at least, there was something about this part of the country that was weirder, stranger, and possibly worse than anything else. Jolene had the unshakeable urge to look over her shoulder at every turn. It took a while for her to find her place of interest: A church on the outskirts of Livingston. It had been cited on a forum with all the keywords Jolene suspected for this secret society of religious zealots she was looking for. The reason it was so difficult to find this place, unironically named _The Cowboy Church_ , was because it was at the end of a dirt road, and also, a house. There were a few cars parked out front, mostly trucks jacked as high as they could, so dropping from the cabin to the ground was basically a feat of parkour. Jolene parked her RV so that if she needed to, she could take off quite quickly and wouldn’t have to worry about maneuvering her way down the street. Once everything was off and locked up, she dismounted and walked along the dirt path, crunching underfoot her heavy boots. Jolene walked past the sign of the religious establishment, peeling paint barely making its name legible, and toward the front door, where a cross was nailed. Jolene sighed, she knocked on the door. There was some sort of meeting tonight, one she hoped she could have access to. Not a minute after she rapped knuckle on wood, the door creaked open, and a face peered through, shotgun barrel beneath it.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Jolene Davis. I heard there was a meeting tonight,” she said, “Do you think I could come in?”

“How did you hear about this place?” he asked.

“Internet,” she replied. “Everything’s up there.”

“And why are you here?” he replied.

“The end of the world,” Jolene replied. That did it. His eyes widened, and he let the door creak open the rest of the way. The man was probably just around retirement age, a crop of oily grey hair slicked back from the point his hairline had receded to the nape of his neck. He wore a cutoff flannel shirt and overalls, everything slightly worn and stained. He set the shotgun over his shoulder in a blatant offense of weapon safety, eyeing her up and down.

“And what does a pretty girl like you want with the end of the world?” he asked, head cocked to one side as he inquired.

“I’m a lot more than a pretty girl,” Jolene responded enigmatically. “May I come in?”

He considered her again before stepping inside. What would have been the living room was converted into a makeshift church, a podium behind a window, and several wooden chairs of mismatched origin distributed in shoddy pews. About five or six men were sitting in the room, all of them the same sort of locals worn from rough work and hard living in the sweat-stained clothes of their labors. Jolene stood out like a sore thumb in her matching floral tights and blouse tucked into a pleated skirt. There was tickling at the back of her neck as she looked around the room. The iconography at the walls all seemed to be out of _Revelations_. Everything was in sevens. It was strange enough she was satisfied for the time being. The man who entered the door sat down in the very back pew, gun perched on his knee. They were waiting for someone. It took three more minutes for that person to be revealed.

A door opened, and a man stepped out. Unlike all the rest, he was visibly not from the proletariat. He was blonde and blue-eyed, tall and broad-chested, well-dressed with a heavy cross hanging around his neck, probably in his late thirties. He entered the room, and it was like the air became a bit sweeter, but the sort of sweet that made the tongue curl up and the throat ache with the urge to gag. “My friends,” he said. “Thank you for coming here.” He took the podium, surveying the room with a self-satisfied expression. His eyes landed on Jolene, and she didn’t miss his tongue dart out to moisten his lips for a moment. She repressed the desire to shudder. “And of course, thank you to Mr. Kimball for offering his place of worship for me to use,” he nodded at one of the men sitting in the front row. “My name is Phineas Thornton. I am a member of the Order de Molay, we are dedicated to fulfilling the role of the army of Christ. I speak to you today, as I do too many good Christian men eager to serve their Lord and Savior.” His eyes flickered back to Jolene. “We are in dire times. There is a reason to believe, strong reason, that the prophecies of John the Revelator shall soon be fulfilled. You may think I am a fool, a man predicting the end of times, and perhaps my words cannot be trusted with logic and reason, but in your faith and your hearts, you know things are coming to an end. You need little evidence beyond the current events we have foreseen.

"Take, for example, the invaders at the border. When the first seal opens to mark the end of the world, the first horseman clad in a crown shall conquer, and what are these invaders doing but trying to conquer our lands? And when the second seal opens to mark the end of the world, the second horseman with a great sword shall destroy our peace. And what else do we call this violence they have reaped? The violence of the terrorists of the middle east, hidden in those same caravans to reap chaos and fear in our lands? And when the third seal opens to mark the end of the world, the third horseman shall mean there is little food more than oil and wheat, and if we are expected to keep feeding our invaders, what will be left? And the fourth seal, and the fourth horseman, and the death? Is that not the result of all of this?”

Phineas sighed slowly. “You know, in your souls that I speak the truth, you have been called here by God. The Antichrist has opened the seven seals, and I know who she is. We have all heard of the supposed apparition in Tucson, man and wife visited by the Virgin Mary to allow these evils to our land. How it has sparked the freedom of these criminals, these _animals_ , across creation, burdening the western world with their suffering. I tell you, that was no Virgin Mary. That was a false apparition, a false prophet, and a servant of Satan. It will take God-fearing people like yourselves to fight against the forces of Hell. The fifth seal will be the martyrs of God, and they will need soldiers alongside them. The sixth seal, the seventh seal, the trumpets, the bowls, the cataclysms – it is all coming. And it is only those who defend God’s realm and fight in Christ’s army who will be blessed to see Kingdom Come. You are here because you are chosen, chosen to fight, chosen to join, chosen to become a defender of or Savior’s name. Trust your faith in God, trust your faith in the Almighty, and trust your faith in that you are sitting here, hearing my word, a call to action for the future of the Host.”

Phineas Thornton was spewing absolute bullshit, as far as Jolene was concerned. And yet, there was that strange feeling in her chest that told her something was weird. The people around the room, the men in question, were nodding in agreement. They had dazed looks on their faces, as Thornton’s charisma was somehow overwhelming any concept of common sense. His fearmongering was making their hands itch for triggers and their souls for some higher purpose, the one he seemed to promise. “The Order de Molay[3] needs members,” he said. “We need soldiers for Christ. I offer you now a chance to join our ranks and our holy purpose. I would be surprised to see the year 2020 before the end times come.” He finished his sermon. His war speech. The dazed expression faded a bit as his speaking ended, his glittering charisma waned. Some men still looked interested, others were becoming unconvinced.

Jolene raised her hand. She wasn’t that experienced with how religious cult meetings were supposed to go, might as well fall back on old manners. Phineas looked at her with surprise and nodded at her.

“Do you think this false Mary is the Antichrist?” Jolene asked. “Or perhaps some consort of Satan?”

“I do,” Phineas nodded, looking at her with the same rapture he was hoping would soon come.

“How many men are members of your order?” Jolene asked.

“Not enough, but our numbers are always growing, with God’s grace,” Phineas replied. “I must admit, I am surprised to see you here, Miss, uh-”

“Davis, Jolene Davis,” Jolene said. “Why are you surprised? Can women not be soldiers of God? I would think Joan of Arc would disagree.”

“Indeed,” Phineas smiled at her with a look that neared indulgence. “So how are you here? Did you hear about it from a friend?”

“Would you believe me if I said it came to me in a dream that I should come here?” Jolene asked hesitantly.

“I think I would,” Phineas replied. “You have a spirit about you, Miss Davis, one I have only seen in those chosen to lead the armies of Christ.”

“Do I?” Jolene made sure she sounded faint and flustered.

“All of you,” Phineas said, realizing that there was some outside interest in his and Jolene’s conversation, “Have the making of the soldiers of Christ. If you would like to join our ranks, we have a facility not far from here. It is where we train and prepare for what is coming.”

He gave a bit more of a righteous speech about the Order, and Jolene leaned back in her seat, feeling satisfied. She, of course, recognized the significance of the name _Molay_ , the final grandmaster of the Knights Templar. She had done her research, and these men fashioned themselves in the legacy of that army of Christ, then perhaps Agnes' prophecies had met their fruition. It certainly seemed to Jolene like they had. That flickering feeling in her chest, the heavy saccharine _something_ in the air. It was like when this Phineas Thornton spoke, the air became perfumed with honeysuckle and begonias, so sweet and dense it made the head a little light. Jolene pushed passed these feelings, her mind clear for the most part, perhaps she was fidgeting with a spinning ring on her thumb to keep steady on something, but whatever he was, it was not affecting her. Jolene was strange, as some individual humans had a propensity to be a bit beyond the standard typical definition of a human. Some could see auras, perform occultist rituals, feel the world's energies, walk the Earth in sleep, sense emotions, be uncannily aware of the unusual, or were incredibly, dangerously charismatic. And the latter, it seemed, described Phineas Thornton perfectly. He was an idiot, a fool, a fanatic, and he was a charming one.

The meeting ended. Some men lingered to give their names and contact information to Phineas Thornton. Others gave him a donation and shuffled away with the half-certainty that this was insanity. Jolene didn’t sit up, staring with interest at a rendition of fire and blood raining from the sky. As she expected, once the church was all but empty for the shotgun-bearing guard, the man who owned this Cowboy Church, and Thornton himself.

“Miss Davis,” Thornton said, his voice even sweeter and heavier when it was directed at her. She felt the sort of dizziness of alcoholic fumes when she had earned his full intention. It took concentration not to fall victim to whatever strange charisma he had. “I would like to talk to you about your dreams if you don’t mind.”

“How’d you know there was more than one?” Jolene asked softly, blinking doe-eyed.

“I believe you are a prophet, my dear,” Thornton offered her his hand. She took it. “You’ve been having nightmares recently, haven’t you?”

“They’re strange,” she admitted. “I dreamed of you, I dreamed of that so-called Exodus at the border, I dreamed about-” what was the last prophecy Agnes had given her? Oh, right, a weird one.

> [723] Whense thoust in graeyte dought, speaketh of bees, and fynde sallve

“-Bees,” Jolene said. Thornton gasped.

“I need to show you something,” Phineas Thornton said. “Would you come with me to my compound? Do you have a car?”

“I own the RV out front,” Jolene said. “I can follow yours.”

And so, Jolene followed a fanatic religious preacher to what was likely his military-grade cult-like compound because of bees. They went from the highway to a narrow single-lane paved road cutting through a wooded area to a dirt road. Suddenly, bright light and barbed wire greeted Jolene. A guard wearing body armor and dark camo met Thornton’s car, and then the gate opened, and both Thornton and Jolene were waved in. There was a car park, full mostly of trucks and jeeps. Thornton parked there, and so Jolene found a spot near the outskirts of this road and parked as well. She sighed as the engine turned off, realizing she was in the belly of the beast. She exited the RV, where Phineas Thornton was waiting for her.

“You weren’t kidding about an army,” Jolene said quietly.

“Come,” Phineas offered her his arm. She accepted it carefully and let him steer her. Every bell and alarm for the unusual was alight in the back of her mind. She felt every single instinct she had ever acquired warning her of danger. She caught the glances of the men decked out in weapons and body armor milling about, considering her with a hunger she didn’t like. To put it quite simply, this place had God-awful vibes, even God agreed. Phineas led her into the compound, a smile and a nod all he needed to give to his guards to let them pass. Jolene took inventory of everything. There were a couple of buildings, they looked all recently constructed, cinderblocks and sandbags and wooden clapboard. It was a hasty job, but clearly, the labor had been done by people who knew what they were doing. There was a reason that Phineas Thornton preferred people in labor and trade professions it seemed, people who were hard-working and perhaps even down on their luck. Not only did it make his word land better, it meant he had useful followers. The only building that had clearly existed long before the shoddy barracks and training facilities was the main house, looking like something that belonged on a plantation. Knowing where she was in south-east Texas, Jolene wondered darkly if this was a plantation once upon a time.[4] That was where Phineas brought Jolene, past the two guards standing post and into the building. He brought her upstairs, to what was an office. Books everywhere, newspaper clippings with the classic red string on a corkboard, a well-worn Bible on the bureau beside a cumbersome and costly computer system, and stacks of legal pads covered in scrawled notes. He turned on the computer, allowing it to boot up quickly.

“You could hack the Pentagon with this thing,” Jolene said appreciatively. Phineas Thornton’s silence was odd enough that Jolene suspected she was onto something. His password was eighteen characters.[5]

“Here,” Phineas finally said. “This video went viral two days ago in San Diego, California.

 _ZOO GIRL: BEE QUEEN_ the title read in all caps. He clicked the play button and the video unfurled. It was at some sort of outdoor garden area with an elephant exhibit far in the background, the tweet attached to the video said the video was taken at the San Diego Zoo. A woman was standing in the middle of several boxes of bright flowers, shocks of orange, purple, yellow, pink, and red standing out from the usual greenery. She was equally colorful, her shirt was a pale blue Hawaiian style with orange and pink flowers, and her pants were a sort of earthy olive. What was unusual about her was that she was in a swarm of bees. Her arms were outstretched, and two or three dozen bees were circling her, droning and buzzing in a languid tornado. She seemed completely unbothered by her insect followers, in fact, she looked ecstatic, laughing as a yellow swallowtail butterfly fluttered into this mess and landed on a finger she held up by her face. She cooed at it and smiled as it fluttered away. She rose one arm, outstretched, and her swarm of bees circled her arm and fanned out from her palm, going back to their pollinating work. She turned gleefully to off-camera, and the video cut out.[6]

“Bees,” He said as if it meant everything.

“Bees,” Jolene agreed.

“We need you,” Phineas Thornton said. “I hope you understand this, Jolene. You have been chosen by God to be vital to the end times.”

Jolene smiled gently, “I know. I really do believe that this is where I’m meant to be.”

* * *

ROME LOVED ZOOS. She loved being outside surrounded by nature, where there was still easy access to medicine and ice cream. She loved being able to read about and meet animals from foreign lands, to watch them in specially constructed exhibits designed for their behavioral and extracurricular needs. She loved the educational opportunities offered by somewhere, which was vital to the conservation of endangered species and environmental activism. She loved seeing all the excited children babbling past and the baby animals playing with their mothers. She loved the vitality and the unity and nature as if some hindbrain part of her human mind remembered Eden.

The first thing Rome wanted was to take the Skyfari by the front entrance all the way to the far end of the Zoo. She said then, they could work their way back to the front and spend less time on their feet. Aziraphale said something about sloth, Rome reminded him that neither of them was growing another lifeform inside of them, and five minutes later they climbed into an open-air metal box suspended to a rail system of cables. Rome smiled and grinned, peering over the edges with interest and comparing the view in the sky to the large paper map she had grabbed at the front entrance. She babbled away, to herself more than anything, about the most efficient way to see all the exhibits. The Skyfari ended, they dismounted from what Aziraphale and Crowley both agreed was a human torture device, and Rome set off down _Hippo Trail_. She passed the warthogs, stopped, and said hello to them. The four massive swine perked up and ambled over to the high stucco wall, snorting at her merrily, Rome made sure to say goodbye as well. Aziraphale and Crowley supposed perhaps they were just friendly warthogs. That was until every single animal along the walking route did the same. Every gazelle, Calamian deer, zebra, ostrich, and even the massive hippopotamus, wanted to get a little bit closer to Rome. She greeted them brightly and narrated their ecological label for them as if they had no idea what their native habitat and dietary habits were. When something was endangered, she expressed her sympathy with sincerity. She chattered with the monkeys and the birds. She laughed at the pandas when they rolled around in front of her. She had a full conversation with the mountain lion as it stalked on its enclosed overhead walkway. She jumped around to play with the elephants, cooed, and hissed her way through the reptile house.[7] And she even managed to get herself caught up in a peaceful swarm of bees and butterflies. She didn’t notice the camera that would make her go viral in the pollination garden, and she certainly missed the other eight or nine cameras that recorded her shenanigans throughout the day.

“Her pregnancy symptoms are a bit… odd,” Crowley observed as they drove back to the hotel, Rome had fallen asleep in the back seat with a stuffed python wrapped up in her arms. Aziraphale agreed, and the pair of them both wondered what else she might be able to do. So far, she seemed to be able to undo angelic manipulations when she was asleep and converse to the animals of the world. They talked hypotheticals about Rome often, mostly because the human they were supervising and the mission to both protect her and earn her trust seemed like the only safe thing to talk about. Any other conversation could have easily and dangerously lead to the unspoken thought, the heavy airs about the pair after something had happened when they were drunk, something both of them refused to think about. If their denial crumbled, then they would be left with the reality of their actions and the need to communicate, and that was intolerable.

Rome, it seemed, also liked the beach. Of course, as she divested flippantly, she had never been to the beach, so she greeted everything with new excitement. They toured Santa Monica and Venice, past the shops and the tourists. They looked like quite an odd trio as if they hadn’t already gotten this far garnering strangeness. Rome was dressed perhaps the most stereotypically for the beach but had the color coordination of an excitable child, wearing a one-piece swimsuit with vertical stripes in rainbow shades. She had a buttoned tropical shirt in the equally visual vibrancy of greens and blue-purples open and tied around her waist and a pair of sunshine yellow knee-length shorts. Her sunglasses had vibrantly pink lenses, and shoes were neon orange crocs. Crowley’s swim trunks were black with a dark grey geometric pattern, and atop them, he wore a black button-up shirt half-buttoned with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The only unusual aspect was the _Starry Night_ socks he had tucked into a pair of black crocs, which was an intentional choice to offend any beach-goer he passed.[8] It was a combined nagging of Crowley and Rome for Aziraphale to not wear three layers, including his overcoat and laced-up shoes to the beach. Instead, his button-down oxford in pale blue had short sleeves, his khaki shorts went to the knee to show off his enviously supple calves, and a pair of crocs with mysteriously manifested a tartan pattern overnight. They had, in fact, gone to a croc store in preparation for the beach, because Rome liked the hideously whimsical sandals.[9]

They set up in a miraculously clear stretch of beach a few blocks north of Santa Monica Pier, unfolding a rented beach umbrella and a collection of towels. Crowley and Aziraphale both reclined in the shade, Aziraphale with a book and Crowley with earbuds and a true-crime podcast. Rome, meanwhile, discarded the rest of her clothes except for her glasses and shoes and went to the ocean. It was huge and vast, disappearing off where the earth curved and met the horizon in a kiss that was nothing more than an illusion, the romance of lovers in a theater performance. The salty grey-blue water lapped first at her ankles, trickling out of the transverse gaps of her orange foam shoes as it pulled back. She went deeper and deeper into the waters until she was standing where it was waist-deep, walls of sharp, clear water going as high as her neck. The undertow tried to drag her out to sea, and she enjoyed fighting it, losing sometimes, and swimming back to shallower waters to rechallenge nature.

* * *

SKIN - CROWLEY WAS thinking about skin. Specifically, Crowley was thinking about Aziraphale’s skin. He was trying very hard not to. Still, it had been a thought plaguing him intermittently since the angel stepped out of the bathroom changed into the beach clothes Crowley had insisted that he wear, only to realize that perhaps evil did contain the seeds of its own destruction, after all.[10] Aziraphale didn’t often reveal expanses of skin. Crowley hadn’t seen more than his hands, neck, and face since about the thirteenth century. He hadn’t seen more than about half his calves and his forearms since the very beginning.

Now, there was so much to see! Ankles with well-defined malleolus protrusions and corded Achilles tendons. Calves with supple and curved flesh and a pale sprinkling of hair, Crowley knew was torturously downy. Wrists with pale lines of blue beneath translucent skin. Strong forearms that led to elbows that led to where the sleeve cut off at the upper arm. Everything looked as soft and pale as clotted cream, the sort of delicacy that someone wanted to have melted in their mouth. Aziraphale’s modest dress had to be some act of abnegation, some holy insistence on covering up such an unintentional enticement, Crowley was quite sure. He knew what it was like to wake up plastered to Aziraphale in his embrace, legs tangled together. Aziraphale had said the events leading up were little more than some drunken debauchery, sloshed shenanigans, maudlin mischief. It was a joke, something amusing to chortle about years down the road over a few cases of Riesling. Now, this being a joke, Crowley agreed. It was a cosmic joke where the punchline was Crowley’s suffering.

The oh-so-tempting sight of flesh reminded Crowley of the feel of it, where it was soft, where it was solid, where he wanted to get a grip of it and dig his fingers in and feel where he wanted it to smother him so he could feel something else entirely. Crowley did not like to be touched, except he realized now he desperately craved it like a traveler in the desert needed water. He hadn’t been aware of the comfort, the exhilaration, the _sensation_ of being held and caressed until he woke up in an angelic embrace. Now, a blazing reminder of that want was walking around for the world to see. Crowley knew how the claws of temptation could ensnare someone, how the teeth could sink into their meat like a barbed bear trap, and never abate until they were driven to madness by their desire. It was his trademarked specialty, really, or one of them.[11] Well, if temptation was a pointed prison, he was in an iron maiden, and all the torture one assumed came with such an allusion was a swirling mass like a collapsed star in the center of his human core, somewhere between the heart and the liver.

Crowley had a theory, it was not a pleasant one. Since that headache-heavy day when he woke up with a wedding band, since that sleep-sick realization and Rome saying with great sympathy, “ _Oh, honey, you married Aziraphale_ ,” he had wondered why. With the memories of the night swathed in a hazy plume of alcohol and something else at the edges of his mind, around the curve of the horizon, he only had supposition. Therefore, this theory was only reasonable with the merit that Crowley thought it would be within reason. Crowley had been missing something for a very long time, an ache that had no name, or at least a name ignored. He spent quite a lot of energy keeping it away, keeping it unspoken, and even sometimes unknown. It was annoying to have such a vulnerability, and what more, it was dangerous. Every time Crowley considered letting it be known, letting it be thought, let it be said, he was reminded of why it never should be. But this was the truth if Crowley made himself admit it, he wanted to be married to Aziraphale. Perhaps it was too simple to say that, and marriage was never really the substance of his desire, but it was a succinct encompassment.

What was marriage? Crowley had been contemplating it in silence for the last few days, and why he and Aziraphale would have drunkenly stumbled into it. He had seen the first marriage, not that there was quite a word for it in those days, between Adam and Eve. The first man and the first woman in a garden, insert peg A into slot B, walk through the desert together with a flaming sword, invent agriculture and animal husbandry, live together in a house with sons and daughters. He had seen marriage as it came after a few generations, and daughters were considered property. Soon they were exchanged for goats and pigs, business transactions with the added bonus of the promise of progeny. It kept evolving. Soon it was a subject of limited choice, but more so for building connection and alliance and web within isolated social circles. Love and romance were always part of it, but it was a luxury few humans earned. And then it became mainstream all of a sudden! Humans falling in and out of love at a whim, getting married all the while. So, what was marriage? It was controlled by the higher trends of culture and society, but it was also irreparably woven with the desires and emotions of individuals. It was a combination of the grand and the minute, of external and internal factors, and entirely drenched in the stench of free will.

So, what was marriage to Crowley? He had seen so many types after so many centuries, and most of them seemed mediocre at best. So clearly, marriage for the merit of being married was not what interested him, even in an alcohol-addled state. So, what parts of marriage interested him? What did married humans do that seemed alright? His mind flashed to previous events: Aziraphale’s thumb below his lips, a hand on his wrist, two bodies wrapped up in an embrace beneath a downy duvet. He thought of “bickering like an old married couple,” and those humans who could talk about anything for eternity spliced atop his own conversations with Aziraphale that could have outlasted the heat death of the Universe. He considered that promise of commitment rings on hands as a display that two people were linked together. It wasn’t the inherent possessiveness of trade exchange, but it might as well be the same as inking _property of_ onto their skin, to humans. If he was sappy - which he never was - it was a commitment, _you and me, forever and then some._

The thought of Aziraphale’s touch was a temptation. His company was a desire. His conversation was a want. His commitment was a need. The temptation was just flirtation with desire; the desire was a sweeter way of want, want was a less desperate need, and the need was just a bit of self-control above insanity. How much alcohol would it take to tip the scales toward madness? For Crowley to fall back on the teachings of Hell and covet what he shouldn’t? For him to take advantage of Aziraphale’s mental state, convince him it was for the _Las Vegas Experience_ , and drag him off to a wedding chapel? It was only this damned prophecy and pregnant human that had kept Crowley from dashing to a far corner of the world the morning he woke up in the angel’s embrace.[12] He had ruined everything, hadn’t he? It was clear that Aziraphale was upset about what had happened, he had never been so ascetic, and he had stayed away from all alcohol since. He didn’t speak to Crowley unless there was a neutral agent in their presence, and all conversation was either inconsequential, devoted to the Madonna, or absent. He ruined everything, things were alright, and he ruined them. This realization broke his carefully constructed compartmentalization of denial, and out flooded anger. Not at Aziraphale, except yes, at Aziraphale. Why did he let Crowley convince him to do something so stupid? And why on the circumstance that he finally did cave, it happened when neither of them could remember it? Of course, Crowley’s anger was mostly self-directed. Stupid, selfish, manipulative, _yearning_ demon. He’d buggered everything. He’d fucked it up. He went too fast.

* * *

[1] “To Bitch the Pot” is an old colloquialism for pouring tea. And of course, pouring or spilling tea is a modern colloquialism for divulging in particularly sordid gossip. And what more, being a bit bitchy about the prophetic gossip she foretold was quite like Agnes Nutter.

[2] It would be, probably.

[3] The name itself was all it took to set off a klaxon alarm in Jolene’s head: part prescience, part cognizance, and part reference.

[4] It was, and you feel it. There was something particularly horrible about places where human beings were regarded as property and abused per their perceived inhumanity.

[5] Jolene, knowing things she had no right to know and sensing when things were strange, was able to identify not only the password was eighteen characters long, but precisely which eighteen characters it was in length.

[6] If the video had not cut out, it might have panned to the people she was talking to: an auburn-haired demon clad in black and sunglasses, and a pale blonde angel dressed in beiges and browns. 

[7] Upon exiting the reptile house, Aziraphale inquired about Rome’s fondness of serpents, and she said she thought they were “the cutest little noodles even when they’re murder spagurders or nope ropes, and I’d love to boop their cute little snoots.” Lest to say, Crowley felt very concerned about having his snoot booped. It was out of self-preservation that he had purchased Rome the plush albino Burmese Python from the Zoo’s Gift Shop. Shut up, Aziraphale.

[8] It was a wildly effective annoyance.

[9] She was self-conscious about her feet, as it so happened, and crocs were the closest to sandals she could stand. The reason being for this discomfort, of course, laid entirely in the pale scars which a lesser shoe would reveal.

[10] This was a bit of a simplification and over-exaggeration all at once. Simplification, because Crowley was only half of the side which argued Aziraphale wear something summery, the other half being less evil but perhaps far more knowing about the consequences of what she was sowing. Over-exaggeration, of course, because Aziraphale’s skin was not necessarily Crowley’s destruction as much as embarrassing fascination.

[11] Another, so it seemed, happen to be pining.

[12] That and the hangover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked the chapter!
> 
> What did you think about Jolene and her mission following the prophecies of Agnes Nutter? What about Phineas Thornton? He's a character. We see Rome's powers grow! What do you think it all means, especially for the future? Is she maybe a little bit more than just a vessel for God's essence, or does that mean something other than pregnancy? What about Crowley having a guilt-ridden crisis over Aziraphale showing skin at the beach? He's aware of his feelings, but will he ever get the courage to act on them?
> 
> As always, I appreciate your feedback in all forms. I also immensely enjoy talking to you in the comments! Until the next chapter! :)


	17. I Try To Talk Refined For Fear That You Find Out How I'm Imagining You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I hope you're enjoying the last few weeks of the decade! I'm _not_. It's finals week, and I'm procrastinating studying to update this instead. But, then I get a whole month off for winter break, can I hear a wahoo?  
> Just a few notes for this chapter:  
>  \- I think I broke my footnote record (17!)  
>  \- This fic is slowly becoming a musical as I try to fit as many songs from my ineffable husband playlist into it.  
>  \- If I were Rome, I would've snapped as early as Seattle. Kudos to her for surviving this long.  
>  \- I think they finally, sort of, talk in this chapter, somewhat.

FORGET PREGNANCY FATIGUE, Rome had never been more exhausted than she was as the middle monkey[1] between Crowley and Aziraphale.[2] It had been a gradual slide since the day at the beach, but the more time they were together, the more frustrating it all became. They left Los Angeles and drove up to San Francisco, Crowley spent the whole while brooding and snapping whenever someone tried to talk to him. His lousy mood continued as they visited the magnificent redwood forests, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Alcatraz Island. He seemed to assuage mayhem as a coping mechanism, which led to a prison riot[3] and a particularly nasty headache for Rome. Aziraphale lectured him, and soon both of them were giving each other the silent treatment all the way up to Portland. Crowley disappeared in Portland.[4] To keep Aziraphale from his worrying, Rome took him for an entire day at Powell’s City of Books, where he particularly enjoyed the extensive collection of rare first editions, some of which he had been searching for in the market for quite some time. Crowley reappeared in time for them to go to Seattle, but now Aziraphale was incredibly offended by his behavior. The passive-aggressive bickering followed Rome up the Space Needle and through Pike Place Market. She scratched Chihuly Garden off the activities list in fear one of them would shatter the glass installations out of frustration. Rome intentionally got lost at Yellowstone National Park in the hope that their working together would get them over this stupid disagreement. Still, they descended back to their frustrating mutual discord once they found her twelve feet up a tree. They didn’t even care how she got up there.[5]

They needed to talk. Rome was quite aware that this was not rooted in a simple disagreement, but a much larger and yet unspoken source of frustration: The marriage.

It was clear they had become so unsatisfied with how they handled it, both at themselves and the other, that they had taken to arguing as their frustrations. It was also quite effective at keeping them angry enough not to fall into pining. They would continue to fight until the underlying issue was addressed, and that wouldn’t happen until they talked about their feelings. So, Rome needed to make them talk about their feelings. She wasn’t ready to be a supernatural marriage counselor. Still, sometimes, the Ineffable Plan will assign tasks that are a bit beyond somebody’s reach in the present so they can become incredibly well-prepared for the far more urgent tasks of the future. Rome didn’t want to sit them down and have them talk, mostly because she was quite sure they would run away to avoid any attempt of hers to do so. Her current plan was a bit like a sauna, turning up the heat until they broke out into a sweat. So, on the trip from Yellowstone to Denver, she researched romantic venues in Denver while also downloading many, many songs to build a playlist. What more, Rome had a co-conspirator.

“Okay, so, I love Queen, but do you have anything other than the disk of their remastered top hits? If I hear _Fat Bottomed Girls_ one more time, I’m gonna start hallucinating that ass-robot from the 2005 children’s film _Robots_ starring a cross-dressing robot Robin Williams.”

“The girl has a point. Do you have any other bebops, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, sounding more pointed and pretentious than usual.

“They’re not _bebop_. Queen is not _bebop_. The Velvet Underground is not _bebop_. The _bebop_ genre went out of vogue fucking _half a century ago-_ ”

“Ooh, Velvet Underground?” Rome asked. “Do you unironically listen to _The Black Angels’ Death Song_?”

“Shut up.”

“ _Pale Blue Eyes_? _I’ll Be Your Mirror_?”

“Shut up!” Crowley snapped.

“Don’t be rude!” Aziraphale scolded.

“I have a couple of playlists on my phone,” Rome offered.

“I'm not rude!” Crowley exclaimed.

“Anyway, if your car had an auxiliary cord or something for the sound system compatible with my phone, I could probably plug it in,” Rome continued.

“You’re always rude!” Aziraphale said. “It’s in your nature!”

“Your car just grew an aux cord, are you aware she can do that?” Rome inquired.

“Oh, my nature, is it?” Crowley asked.

“You guys are completely unaware I’m talking, aren’t you?” asked Rome.

“Are you offended?” Aziraphale asked.

“Okay, if neither of you object in the next five seconds, you will enter a verbal contractual agreement binding by the laws of creation stating thus that I have sole propriety over music choice for the rest of this trip so long as I am in this car. Starting now. Five-”

“Offended? I’m not offended, I don’t get offended.”

“-Four-”

“Well, then why are you so… bothered?”

“-Three-”

“What makes you think I’m bothered?”

“-Two-”

“You’re acting incredibly strange, and you’re far more sensitive than usual.”

“-One-”

“Sensitive? I’m not _sssssenssssitive_.”

“Okay, I’m going to plug my phone into the speakers now,” Rome announced.

“Well, what else do you want me to call your behavior? Something is clearly upsetting you, and you’re acting inappropriately.”

“I’m always inappropriate.”

“Loading up a playlist,” Rome added.

“There! I make a generalized statement about your being, and you get upset, but you do the same, and it absolves you from all criticism?”

“It’s okay, Bentley, my darling, I know you like Queen so much because you’re a classy lesbian,” Rome addressed the car.

“That’s not the point!”

“You have great taste, but limited resources. Well, no longer,” Rome added.

“Then what is the point, Crowley?”

“I think you’ll find we have a similar taste,” Rome said as she set the playlist on shuffle. “And believe me, you’ll love Hozier and Florence when you find them.”

“Then what is the point? It seems like you’ve been angry for the sake of being angry!”

“Although if you could help me with these two idiots, it’d be much appreciated,” Rome added in a low voice as if Crowley and Aziraphale were paying her any attention. She pressed play.

“Oh, don’t play dumb, angel, I-”

The speakers crackled to life with a drum beat and a sweet crooning.[6] Rome burst out laughing when both of them startled and looked positively affronted by the song.

“What the _FUCK_?” Crowley exclaimed, desperately trying to turn off the cd player and radio of his car. He failed, per the terms of the contract.

“I’m in charge of the music now,” Rome announced in such a way that was far more intimidating and authoritative than she intended. Neither angel nor fallen questioned her. “What do you have against Belinda Carlisle?”

“You’ve turned my own car against me!”

“You two are bickering like an old married couple,” Rome shrugged. Then she added acidly, “ _Oh, wait_ -”

“Any other song. _Any other song_ ,” Crowley begged.

“Fine, I shall grant small mercy,” Rome pressed the skip button on her phone. She smirked at the next song that appeared, an instrumental interlude not revealing whatever amused her. The lyrics[7] eventually began, and Crowley started to wish they were back to Belinda Carlisle. Fucking humans being so fucking poignant – and his own damn car betraying him like this!

“And what is this genre called?” Aziraphale asked. “If it isn’t _bebop_?”

“Shut up, Angel.”

Rome explained, “It’s sort of new-age alternative rock – rock is what Crowley likes to listen to - and emo.”

“Emo?” Aziraphale asked.

“Emo is a punk-rock subculture with complex musical arrangements, lyrics that resemble poetic verse more so than most modern music and include heavily emotional subjects,” Rome said. “The subculture is sort of typified by dark clothes, disrespect for authority, and moping.”

“It’s interesting,” Aziraphale admitted.[8]

The music played on a while longer, the mournful poetic lyrics saturating the inside of the Bentley.

“Crowley, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked.

“What?” Crowley glanced away from the point he had been staring at with fixation and relaxed his white-fisted grip on the steering wheel.

“You look… is there something the matter?”

“Rome has shit taste in music,” Crowley said hoarsely.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded.

“Just let him mope,” Rome said gently to Aziraphale.

“I’m not moping.”

“Honey, half of you is nothing but mope.”

* * *

THE HOTEL IN downtown Denver, the Brown Palace Hotel, was centrally located for all of the activities Rome had planned. She had found some of the most romantic spots and events in the city, and did her very best at having Crowley and Aziraphale enjoy them enough she could back away to give them space with each other in hopes it would stimulate something. They went to a cabaret club, cozy and moulin-rouge inspired, Aziraphale made a snide comment about how much Crowley was drinking.[9] They went to fancy restaurants with food. Rome could barely stomach because the romantic atmosphere was delicate. Crowley snapped at Aziraphale to stop making such “obscene” noises when he ate because it was “bothering everyone else,” and Aziraphale then declined to order dessert. Crowley got into a screaming match with the hydrangeas at the botanical gardens, which was unfairly one-sided until Aziraphale stepped in to scold him, claiming that he was “unusually cruel” and “acting childish.” After the resulting argument, both of them were asked to leave the premises.

The drive to Albuquerque was awash with more of Rome’s choice in music, the Bentley supplying a couple very obvious pieces in a desperate attempt to stimulate something. As Rome had hoped, the older lady, as classy as ever, had a soft spot for Hozier.[10]

Deciding that romance only made arguing worse, Rome tried to find very unromantic activities. There was a lot of hiking and some very niche museums integrated into the itinerary, including the Anderson-Abruzzo International Balloon Museum, the National Museum of Nuclear Science and History, and the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center. They still managed to argue about everything, scathing remarks, insults, and general discourtesy typified their every conversation. The only time they shut up was when one of them stormed off, leaving the other to grumble in Rome’s presence.

She was supposed to be the one having tantrums. She was the one knocked up with God’s chosen miracle baby. She was the one whose uterus had inflated to the size of a grapefruit to carry the ever-growing fetus. There were bones in her, and they weren’t even hers these days. She hadn’t pooped in three days, her nausea was picking up intermittently and sporadically, she seemed to only want to eat cucumber slices dipped in Nutella[11]. Her head was always aching or twirling with vertigo, her belly was throbbing as it was finally starting to stretch to accommodate the baby, and she was surrounded by two arguing idiots who had been fighting for about two weeks straight. Maybe, for immortals, that was just a healthy bicker, but Rome was nearing insanity, and quickly.

They left Albuquerque and headed toward Austin. It was a twelve-hour drive, which Crowley was able to shave down to nine hours with his allegedly terrible and dangerous driving. He and Aziraphale spent the first hour arguing about his driving. Then there were two hours of blessed silence after the argument ended with a great huff on both those parts. Out of the blue, Crowley started insulting Aziraphale’s reading glasses, which in Rome’s opinion, made the angel look quite adorable.[12] Aziraphale insulted Crowley’s shades in turn, and soon it became a highlight of six thousand years of fashion faux pas. It would have been funny, their argument if it wasn’t so _bitter_. That was the best way to describe it, yes, bitter. They were angry at the other, but not about the things they found arguments over. No, they were upset over the things they refused to speak of, and they were both mad at other things as well, partly themselves and partly their circumstances. If Rome was going to have to spend many hours of her life suffering this while awake, just to fall asleep and bear the horrors, desperate prayers, and pleas for mercy of humanity, she was going to analyze the shit out of it. But the more they argued over useless things, the more insults, the more misplaced anger, the closer Rome was to her limit. Her rage would not be misplaced, and it would come swiftly and decisively when they passed the point of annoyance and frustration and sent the pregnant philosopher into the rage she wanted to descend to, a red-hot coil gearing to snap in her chest at any minute.

It was a testament to Rome’s strength of will that she snapped when she did. They were on the 183, the sky overhead was a streak of blue ink studded with small jewels, the landscape swathed in darkness, but the dry undergrowth patterned with vibrant green topiary could be seen in outline by the dim light of the moon and the ambiance from passing headlights. Rome was looking with fixation out the backseat window, struggling to ignore the arguing in front of her. The speedometer was jumping around 120 miles per hour, but it felt like they were going faster. If Rome was listening to them converse, she would not have discerned who was talking or what they were saying. The drone of their argument swung like a pendulum between agitation and outright anger. Rome was feeling dizzier, more nauseous than usual, and suddenly her stomach gave a particularly nasty jolt, tingling in the back of her throat, and she needed to be _out of this fucking car_.[13]

“PULL OVER!” She suddenly screeched. To Crowley’s credit, the vehicle swerved and stopped violently. She forced the door open, made it two steps into the fresh nigh-summer air, and promptly threw up in the grass. The Angel and Demon had also exited the car, worrying over her hesitantly.

“See what you’ve done, Crowley!?” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Your reckless driving, going far too fast-”

“Well, going fast is better than not moving at all!” Crowley shouted back.

“What does that even _mean_?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Rome screamed. Her voice seemed to somehow echo in the emptiness of the night air. A flare of light and a loud roaring indicated the passing of a semi-truck on the highway beside them. Rome was more emphatic, “PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF _FUCK_ COULD THE TWO OF YOU STOP ARGUING AND GIVE ME SOME PEACE FOR A SHITFUCKING _SECOND_?!” Her exclamation ended with another wave of nausea and hacking at her feet. She panted hard when it ended, bracing herself on her knees. The coil and snapped, and fury was rolling out of her chest. Overhead, where it had been clear a moment before, a thunderstorm was rolling in with astonishing speed. Everything burned: her chest from the anger, her stomach and throat from the acid, and her eyes from the tears suddenly threatening to spill. Rome cried when she was angry, more so than when she was sad. She wiped furiously at the scalding tears pouring down her cheeks, half-expecting them to boil against her flesh. Overhead, lightning crackled, and thunder rolled, signifying the sudden downpour of warm summer rain. She gave a few gasping sobs and rose herself to her full height, sniffing demurely as if she wasn’t halfway through a tantrum. “You have been fighting on and off for the last two weeks, are you aware of that?” she asked them. They both nodded. “Do you know why?” They looked at her blankly, but her short pause wasn’t one for an answer. “It is because, two and a half weeks ago, the two of you got married in Las Vegas.”

They both made sounds of outraged disagreement.

“It is not about-” Crowley began.

“Hush it,” Rome snapped. His mouth closed. She sniffed again and rubbed furiously at the tears, still making tracks down her face. She cleared her throat. “I’m patient, believe it or not. Patient enough, at this point, that I reckon, I deserve a medal of sorts. And yet-” she laughed acridly, “You two have officially gotten on my _last_ nerve.” She sighed. “For your information, I threw up because my head hurts because I feel like shit and because you two arguing makes it _so much worse_. I’m only human, I have limits, you reached them, and now I’m having a fit. And none of us are getting out of this rain and into that car until I have had my say, something I should’ve given y’all _ages_ ago, for my health, if nothing more.” She said. She gathered her thoughts in a moment and wiped at her face again. The rain was coming down heavy enough. She was already wet, sliding toward soaked. Both Crowley and Aziraphale were in similar states. “You know I thought it was funny at first, and then it was stale, and now it is goddamn _infuriating_ it’s making me physically ill. And even when y’all ain’t bickering, the emotional tension is so thick I could cut it with a butter knife and serve it on a biscuit.[14] I gave y’all space, hoping all would be sorted out in your own sweet time, but that time’s spoiled to sour, so let’s cut the bullshit and get to the stage where you both admit that you’re two idiots in love with the other.”

Her words had a potent effect on the pair of them. Their responses were loud and infuriated.

“You must be mistaken-” Aziraphale began.

“Don’t be stupid!” Crowley exclaimed.

Lightning crashed, and thunder roared, Rome exclaimed, “I SAID HUSH IT!” They went still again. She put her hands on her hips to establish a sort of importance in the conversation. “I may speak like I do, and I may not look like much, but if I have anything, it’s a good pair of eyes, a decent helping of wit, and common sense.”

“Rome, my dear-” Aziraphale began.

Rome swiveled to him, buzzing him to be quiet while pinching her fingers as if she was pinching his lips. It had the intended effect. “You know, Aziraphale, for being someone who’s supposed to be a beacon of compassion and empathy, you really don’t spare a thought for some of the things you say, thinking because you’re righteous, any old thing you say is _right_.” He gasped slightly with great offense, mouth hanging open. Rome continued, “You might’ve given the middle finger to Heaven, but they’re still in your head, and they’ve got you good!” She made a fist and shook it for emphasis. “You’re afraid of the consequences of your feelings because you’ve been beaten down by a system pretending to be fair and good, and so to be safe, you lie to everyone, yourself included. And I am sorry for that. But you lie to everyone, especially yourself, to deal with it. You made this narrative in your head where the principled Principality is doomed to suffer unrequited pining for a rakish rapscallion.” She pouted and mimed a delicate faint, before gesturing at Crowley while lecturing to Aziraphale. “His feelings are about as subtle as a flashing neon sign, and while admitting you’ve been lauding a load of waffle might harm your pride, you have to admit, you’re really curious about what that tongue can do.” Even in the darkness of the dark storm overhead and the torrent of rain, it was clear Aziraphale was blushing so hard he was nearly glowing. He also looked dumbfounded and horrified all at once.

“Look-” Crowley began.

Rome turned to Crowley, “Oh, do I have words for you!” He tried to talk again, but his voice was broken, and thoughts scrambled, so she just spoke over him until the sounds died out, “When you’re scared, you start becoming this cold devil-may-care-but-I-have-on-good-authority-he-doesn’t character who, really, self-abuses more than self-indulges. You make yourself seem as bad as everyone expects you to be because you’re ashamed of everything you actually are. You bully Aziraphale about whatever makes you swoon because you’re punishing yourself for enjoying him, making him angry at you, so it hurts _even more_.” Crowley looked to Aziraphale desperately, as if he needed to say something or wanted Aziraphale to say something. Rome was the only one who said anything. “You might fashion yourself like some rebel without a cause-” she swayed her hips where she stood as she added, “-sauntering through life without a care.” He opened and closed his mouth, and she continued, “You also have a massive guilt complex, self-esteem lower than the Mariana trench, and don’t even get me started on your need for validation! You yearn, ache, and crave _desperately_ for someone to want you, to like you, to love you, and then any chance someone gets close to doing so you overthink, self-deprecate, and self-sabotage. It’s pathetic!” Crowley’s expression of outraged anger was poorly crafted, terror crackling through.

“I am exhausted. I am not feeling well, and we still have a very long drive ahead of us. So, either, we’re gonna get back in the car, drive to Austin, and you’re both going to be silent until I’m settled in and asleep in the hotel, and then you can make those long-held confessions. If you can’t do that, then we’re not leaving until the two of y’all talk about your feelings, make out, or whatever you enjoy in eminence without obstacle of membrane, joint, or limb, or with those obstacles, if it makes it more fun.”[15]

As quickly as it came, the rain suddenly cleared. The dark clouds abated. Crowley and Aziraphale were left gaping at her with flushed faces. She was panting from the force of her words, her ultimatum still hanging heavy in the air alongside the smell of ozone.

“We’ll stop fighting,” Crowley promised suddenly.

“Both of you agree to that?” Rome asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry we’ve been such a… frustration,” Aziraphale said. “We’ll be quiet.”

“Good,” Rome said with a nod.

To their credit, they were. The silence was awkward, yes, but it was also quiet. The tension in the air was easy to ignore, and their stolen glances at the other weren’t Rome's concern at the moment. When they finally reached the hotel, The Driskill, Rome retired to the master bedroom of the suite immediately, closing the door to the large upholstered and leaving them in the living area full of wood, stone, and caramel-colored leather.

* * *

THERE’S A WORD in the Yaghan language, originating in Tierra del Fuego of South America, that is the most difficult word to translate. It also is, according to Guinness records, the “most succinct” word humanity ever invented. The word in question is Mamihlapinatapai. The word in question describes a particular look shared between two people, one where both of them desire the same thing and desperately hope that the other will be the one to initiate it, but neither is willing. Perhaps they are too scared, too proud, too unsure. It’s a nebulous concept, one that seems far too specific for a single word. So the Yaghan language really must be admired for its ability to give a single word to such a state of limbo, mutual pining, and mutual hesitation wrapped up in a moment of tension.

The moment that Crowley and Aziraphale waited for the aftermath of Rome’s outburst of assumption to come to blows was a moment so perfectly layered in Mamihlapinatapai. The desire itself that was going unsaid and uninitiated was not one desire, but several. The first desire, perhaps the most recent and therefore the most immediate, was confirmation, was she right, was she wrong, and if so, about what? The second desire was confession, the admittance of feeling, the elaboration of it. The third desire was the oldest one, of emotion and companionship, and that human concept of romantic love. They both wanted, but neither was prepared to take the measure, both just hoped desperately the other would be the one to do it. And so, their impasse hung heavy in the air.

The impasse would only be broken in a moment of bravery, which was the problem. Both Crowley and Aziraphale were afraid of what would happen next, which was why they had spent so long keeping this part of their relationship where it was safe. It had taken incredible amounts of alcohol to lower their inhibitions enough to move forward, and when they ran ahead, they did it so quickly they fell on their faces. They were committed to sobriety for this conversation, hoping to talk, but neither wanting to start. They had both been brave before, but it was always when things seemed urgent when there was no time to contemplate the fear. Now, there was no urgency, it felt like they had eternity to sit across from each other until the other one said something.

Crowley was the first to act. It wasn’t an act of bravery; the wait had become unbearable. Crowley was a hyperactive person, he moved around, he didn’t sit still, he acted. So, he stood up, and he started to pace, this sitting and waiting weren’t serving him well. Aziraphale was the first to speak. They weren’t words of confidence; he had never been more terrified. Aziraphale was an articulate person, he spoke, he conversed, he used his words. So, he said, “I believe that Rome made some… interesting observations.”

“That’s what you’re calling them?” Crowley asked, not ceasing his pacing across the carpeting, not looking at Aziraphale, trying very hard to seem like he had no stake in the conversation. Then he stopped, words burning in his head. He still didn’t look at Aziraphale, looking at the fireplace instead, admiring the woodwork, “Was she right?” Crowley asked quietly.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched, and then he sighed, “I could ask you the same question.”

“You’re evading.”

“So are you.”

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Crowley offered.

“We’ve tried that tactic,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t believe it’s worked particularly well.”

“Well, we can’t both talk and not talk,” Crowley said.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agreed.

The silence lapsed yet again, Crowley resumed his pacing, Aziraphale massaged his hands as they were folded neatly in his lap.

“I owe you an apology, I think,” Aziraphale said.

“Shut up,” Crowley said flippantly.

“Please, don’t evade, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Crowley was surprised, usually Aziraphale, well, backed off. He glanced at him, suddenly realizing how stricken Aziraphale was. He looked about how Crowley felt. “I owe you an apology because I’ve been upset at you, and instead of addressing it, I fear I’ve been… a poor friend.”

“I acted worse than you did, it’s fine,” Crowley said.

“It isn’t!” Aziraphale insisted. His voice rose in volume and pitch. He deflated slightly, “It isn’t fine, Crowley. I don’t like fighting with you, or being angry with you, and certainly how I treated you.”

“ _I’m_ fine, angel,” Crowley said, although it could have been more convincing.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed. “I forgive you.”

Crowley growled and turned away, “Stop it!”

“I do!” Aziraphale said. “I – I hope that you can forgive me.” The tremor in his voice made Crowley turn back slowly, looking at Aziraphale before facing him. Aziraphale was looking at his feet and wringing his hands.

“There’s nothing to forgive, it’s all my fault, anyway,” Crowley said, sinking back onto one of the leather couches.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked.

“I started it,” Crowley said.

“Started what?”

“The fighting, for no good reason.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale nodded. “Well, there’s another thing I feel I should apologize for.”

“Angel, please-”

“I lied to you,” Aziraphale said. “I do it a lot, I think. I do it because… I suppose I’m trying to protect others, or myself, and I do it with dishonesty.”

“It’s fine.” Crowley insisted. “I don’t care.”

“You should,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been pretending for so long that I’m fine with what happened, the marriage, but, well, I’m not.”

The words hurt more than Crowley anticipated, his throat closed up as he tried to swallow. It was like a searing poker pressed between his ribcage directly behind his sternum, “Oh.”

“You were very insistent. It was all in good humor, and I didn’t want to burden you with my feelings about it,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s fine.”

“Please stop saying it’s fine,” Aziraphale said.

“I – I get it. You weren’t planning on getting married,”

Aziraphale gave a sort of humorless laugh, “No, I wasn’t.”

“And to a demon, well,” Crowley made a sort of scoffing sound, but it sounded more like a whimper of disgust.

“Crowley?”

“Who’d want to _bind_ themselves forever to a – well, me? After all, I’m just… well, not the marrying sort. Marriable sort.” He examined his fingernails with a cavalier sort of interest. “Lovable… sort. So, you know, no harm was done, angel, it’s… I understand I appreciate that you tried so hard to, you know, pretend for my sake. I don’t blame you for, I mean, I probably tricked or tempted you into it anyway. Maybe I thought it was funny. Sort of thing I would do, right?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sounded distraught. Crowley looked up at him. He looked even more miserable than he seemed. “Do you really think that? That you did this as a practical joke?”

“What do you want me to say, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked.

“The truth, as I’m trying to do. As you’ve always done for me, until recently,” Aziraphale said. He sighed, steadied himself, and repeated, “I want to know the truth.”

“The truth?!” Crowley stood up as if it outraged him. He paced. “Well, I don’t know what happened that night any more than you do.”

“Then why do you think it was your fault? It could have just as easily been mine. We could have come up with the idea together.”

“It wasn’t, we didn’t,” Crowley shook his head.

“Why are you certain?”

“Because, I- I just know.”

“How?”

“I just do!”

“ _How_?”

“Please, please, don’t make me say it,” Crowley said.

“Say what?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley sighed: he was tired. He was tired of his performance and his pain. It might as well be time to suffer. He still didn’t let himself believe his feelings could ever be reciprocated, but he was too tired to come up with anything that wasn’t the truth. He collapsed against the mantle of the fireplace, head buried in his folded arms, back turned away from Aziraphale.

“I wanted it,” Crowley admitted with defeat, like a somber surrender. He didn’t know what reaction would be worse. Aziraphale trying to make him feel better? Aziraphale pretending he felt the same to spare him? Aziraphale’s awkward realization? Aziraphale’s disgust? His silence seemed unbearable, it stretched and stretched. Had he said it at all? Did Aziraphale even hear? Was he even here?

There was a sound behind Crowley, the sort of sliding of the fabric against leather. Then there were footsteps, leather soles against carpets, coming closer and closer. He stiffened like a board. It was an involuntary action, instinct far more than intention, he was expecting some sort of outburst on Aziraphale’s behalf. Some kind of punishment. In Hell, all things like Heaven were punished. Love especially. Aziraphale was not a demon, and this was not Hell, but particular suffering is hard to forget.

He could feel the edges of Aziraphale’s corporeal body standing behind him, the blur of his metaphysical aura lapping against where Crowley’s was anchored, reaching out. Crowley curled his inward and tighter, coiling up to fit in as little space as he could. Aziraphale stepped closer, and Crowley was nearly trembling, waiting for blows that would never come. Instead, the only thing that happened was a soft hand, hesitantly resting itself on Crowley’s shoulder. It was, Crowley realized, supposed to be soothing. It was scalding. Then, there was a soft tugging, Aziraphale gently steering Crowley away from the mantle to face him. Crowley didn’t resist, but he stared at Aziraphale’s shoes. Aziraphale rubbed his hand up and down the outside of Crowley’s upper arm, a comfortable motion.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley’s voice cracked as he spoke. He would on the verge of tears if demons could cry.[16]

“As am I,” Aziraphale said. “I should’ve been honest about my own desires. If I had been perhaps a little bit braver, maybe you wouldn’t think… think that this was anything to be ashamed of. Because it isn’t, Crowley.”

“Ashamed?” Crowley repeated. “You think I’m ashamed?”

“I don’t really know what you think, you haven’t said. But I do believe that… you’re under the very mistaken impression you don’t deserve the things you want.”

Crowley scoffed and backed out of Aziraphale’s grasp, his feet bringing him closer to the door. “Oh, don’t pretend.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You know as well as I do that, I’m a demon. I’m unforgivable, I’m undesirable, I’m unlovable. Everyone knows that.”

“Well, my dear, you’ve always been quite terrible at being a demon by their standards. Just as I am a horrible angel, caring for the adversary instead of smiting them. In my defense, of course, it seems, one way or another, the demon in question did end up a bit smitten.” It was a soft attempt at humor, and it fell flat.

“I can’t – I can’t laugh about this,” Crowley shook his head. “I need… I need space.”

Aziraphale looked quite downtrodden, but he put on the stiff upper lip one would attribute to the English. If they had gotten that trait from Aziraphale or he from them, it was a bit of a blur. “I understand,” Aziraphale said. “Take the time you need.”

Crowley made his way to the door, to leave the hotel suite, to have some space just to breathe. But he wasn’t ready yet. Crowley needed only a word more of clarification. He turned back around with one hand on the knob, “You know when I said I wanted it… I meant the marriage.”

“I know,” Aziraphale nodded.

“Did you want the same?” Crowley asked.

“It’s not an easy answer, Crowley,” Aziraphale admitted. “To be quite honest, I’ve spent so much time trying to ignore those feelings that I didn’t let myself think about it.”[17]

“Could you think about it?” Crowley requested, surprising himself.

“I don’t think I’d be able to think about anything else after this,” Aziraphale admitted. Crowley nodded shortly, not having any better response to that reaction, and then he left.

* * *

[1] She was the closest thing to a monkey of the three of them.

[2] With a couple of exceptions, like that week during her junior year, she had 4 exams, 2 papers, and 6 sequential night shifts.

[3] The rioters were tourists, of course. Whether or not that was better or worse than actual prisoners remains under heavy contention.

[4] He spent his vanished time at those horrible breweries, and once he was so drunk, he couldn’t walk, he slept it off in the middle of the woods.

[5] She climbed. She was, after all, a primate.

[6] _Ooh baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on earth. They say in heaven, love comes first, we’ll make heaven a place on earth. Ooh, heaven is a place on earth._

[7] _The night sky once ruled my imagination. Now I turn the dials with careful calculation. After a while, I thought I'd never find you. I convinced myself that I would never find you. When suddenly, I saw you._

_At first, I thought you were a constellation. I made a map of your stars, then I had a revelation: You're as beautiful as endless, You're the universe I'm helpless in. An astronomer at my best when I throw away the measurements._

_Like a telescope, I will pull you so close 'til no space lies in between. And suddenly, I see you. Suddenly I see you. I was a billion little pieces ‘til you pulled me into focus. Astronomy in reverse, It was me who was discovered. (I thought I’d never find you When suddenly I saw you.)_

_Like a telescope, I will pull you so close, ‘til no space lies in between. Then suddenly, I see you._

[8] It also reminded him of somebody.

[9] In the angel’s defense, even Rome was concerned with the vigor of his consumption.

[10] _I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found (Hey ya). I'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground (Hey ya). I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee that made him turn around (Hey ya). And I'd be the immediate forgiveness in Eurydice. Imagine being loved by me!_

[11] Aziraphale was disgusted.

[12] And of course, therein lay Crowley’s problem.

[13] When she was of a clearer mind, she apologized profusely to the Bentley for daring to think ill of her comrade-in-amorousness

[14] American, of course. Don’t put emotional tension on cookies. Clotted cream is fine.

[15] Rome was, naturally, citing John Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ , specifically the scene in which a blushing Raphael gives a human an angelic take of birds and bees, a bit ironic here, given the circumstances.

[16] Demons, as a matter of fact, were just as capable of crying as anything else with lacrimal glands. The issue, of course, was that crying was not a strictly allowed demon activity.

[17] “It” meant many, many things at once. “It” was what Aziraphale wanted, what he felt, what he desired. “It” was also Crowley’s desperate ache for something and his feelings that were indeed on a visual display. “It” was the significance of their relationship and their commitment, and all the potential it had to be something else in transformative ways. “It” was a lot of things, and so it was quite easier to just refer to it as “it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always, I appreciate your feedback in all forms.
> 
> What do you think of Rome finally being fed up with everything? When do you think you would have snapped and yelled at Crowley and Aziraphale? Comment on a scale of Tuscon to Austin below! So, they had a conversation. It wasn't the great and easy coming together that we all wanted, but I hope the developments in a positive direction aren't too frustrating. They have a lot of problems. Hopefully, nothing will happen to throw a wrench in everything while they're separated.
> 
> Please comment so I can focus on those instead of recombinant genomic methods and processes! Thank you again, until the next chapter!


	18. At Best You'll Find A Little Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Rome go to a gay bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about not posting for so long. Life has been a lot, and this fic takes a lot of effort to update. Thank you for your patience. A few notes for this chapter:  
>  \- In case you forgot where we left off (I did), Crowley left because he has some issues  
>  \- This chapter is Crowley's issues and me celebrating Austin, Texas.  
>  \- Austin, Texas, is a cool town.  
>  \- I have a version of pre-earth Christianity-inspired mythology I am developing throughout this fic using elements of Christian faith as well as the themes of the original _Good Omens_. I don't think anybody's reading this to study for their bible class, but just know I use regard Biblical literature with the same honor I do any other piece of interesting literature. I take some liberties where fanfiction comes in. If that bothers you for personal reasons, this fic isn't for you, I'm sorry.

ROME WOKE UP with warm yellow sunlight streaming through the blinds of her temporary room. She always felt a little discombobulated when she woke up from one of those nightmares, especially when the bed she slept in changed every few days. They were still horrible, but part of her was glad she wasn’t getting desensitized to human suffering. She was getting better at adjusting and compartmentalizing, which made it easier to live a daily life. But that last dream, it was strange. She had been in another bombed Middle Eastern town, and suddenly, cutting through her regular fare, there was a voice. She couldn’t follow it, but it was there. “ _Why did you let this happen? How could you let this happen? Is this some punishment for stopping your apocalypse, I get what I want except I can’t? If I – if he – if we – what if he Falls? I can’t let him Fall, I can’t be the reason why he Falls. But – I mean – is this all some… is this like when you lead them knowingly to their destruction? Don’t do it to him, please, he’s the best of all your angels. If he can love a demon – well, he’s always been too good for Heaven - please don’t fault him for that_.”

The voice was familiar, context clues of the last night started aligning with Rome’s recollection of the prayer. Rome sighed and arched her back, letting the spine crackle as ligaments pulled, released, and shifted. She padded out of the bedroom in her pajamas[1] and saw Aziraphale, and only Aziraphale, sitting on the couch with a dazed look on his face. The sort of stunned look that was a sheet of glass over a piece of torment.

“Aziraphale?” Rome asked, her voice still thick from her rest. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“Oh, Rome,” Aziraphale looked at her. Then he looked around as if realizing his surroundings for the first time in hours. “Oh, heav- er, the time has really passed without me, it seems. How late is it?”

“A bit after nine,” Rome said, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece with a glance. She looked at the angel. She had never seen him looking so lost before.

“Oh, you probably need to eat something,” Aziraphale said.

If Rome thought about it, her stomach was a little unsteady and gave a roll. But Rome could also ignore it. “I’ll eat later, not that hungry at the moment.” She walked closer to the couch, where he sat and carefully lowered herself beside him. “Aziraphale,” she repeated, her voice probing him.

“Crowley isn’t here,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound casual, but it was stiff.

“I know,” Rome said. “He…” she trailed off. She hadn’t divested in her dreams to them, how she could even hear prayers if she was awake and listening, she wasn’t sure now was the best time to drop that sort of bomb. She did reach out in her head, hearing Crowley’s voice going over the same kind of concerns, babbling. “He’s safe.”

“He talked to you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Sort of,” Rome didn’t elaborate.

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale flashed a brief smile of relief before looking positively devastated.

“Aziraphale,” Rome said gently, reaching out gently to his hands where they were wringing in his lap. He stilled but didn’t pull away as she wrapped them up in hers and squeezed them gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Does talking help?” Aziraphale asked.

“People say it does,” Rome said. “I can’t say I’m good at that part enough to have any authority on the subject.”

Aziraphale offered her a sort of sympathetic smile before returning to his own somber expression, lower lip trembling. He let out a soft, involuntary sob, and then he collapsed against Rome. She caught him and let him burrow his face into her shoulder. She let go of his hands so she could pull him into a side-long hug, stroking his back gently.

“There you are,” she whispered. “It’s going to be alright. You’ll see.”

“H-ho-ho-how did you know?” Aziraphale stuttered. “When did you realize how I felt for Crowley?”

“I met you,” Rome replied bluntly.

He gave a watery laugh, “You just… did you feel it?”

Rome shook her head, “No, I just, well, I have eyes, you know. They work. And I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m still good for stabbing.”

“You’re quite clever,” Aziraphale insisted. “Clever for a human – clever, full stop. You, well, you were right.”

“I know,” Rome said.

“I’ve known Crowley for six thousand years, loved him for, well, God knows how long, and I’ve known I loved him for near eighty. And yet, in all that time, I never realized he loved me. Isn’t it odd?”

“No,” Rome said.

“I wanted him to. I hoped that he did. But I convinced myself that he didn’t. I think I did it to keep him safe,” Aziraphale admitted. “It was, well, dangerous; our communications, our arrangement, our friendship. I could barely stand; well, I wanted to be in his company, but I always found myself looking around for Uriel or Gabriel to - well… and it wasn’t just me I worried over. I should have been. Heaven isn’t what I thought it was. But at the time, I thought since I was doing the right thing, the best I could, Heaven would forgive me. It was always Crowley who worried me. Hell is, well, Hell, after all. They would destroy him the moment they realized – and I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t bear to think about it. But it’s different now, isn’t it? It couldn’t get worse, well, it could, but we’re on our own side now. We survived the punishments of our hosts. There’s nothing… no obstacles… except ourselves.”

“You’ve been thinking about it,” Rome observed.

“All I can think about, really,” Aziraphale admitted. “I’m trying to figure out when at the moment. When he felt that way for me, I can’t… I can’t pinpoint when there was some sudden shift. Either it happened slowly and gradually over time, or, or it’s been like this since the beginning. Do you think it’s possible? That he’s-?”

“I think you should ask him,” Rome said. “When he comes back.”

“Will he?”

“Hasn’t he always?”

“He has,” Aziraphale agreed quietly. “I could always count on Crowley, you know. To help me, rescue me, when I found myself in a spot of danger. I often got more involved with some of my duties than Heaven recommended. Or I did it for attention, his attention.”

“You made yourself a damsel in distress for Crowley’s attention?” Rome asked.

“Yes, I think I did because I wanted to see him. It, well, there was a stage in our relationship where I wanted to spend time with him but also believed I ought to refuse myself that. So, you know, I made it complicated enough I could justify seeing him.[2] Winding up dressed in aristocratic clothes during the Reign of Terror. He saved me before I was beheaded, you know. We went for crepes. I said I was there for the crepes[3], and I was, but also, well, I was there for Crowley. To see him. He was always far more dependable, far more likable than any angel I knew in Heaven.”

“Yeah, I think he’s always been a sweetie,” Rome agreed.

Aziraphale snorted, “Don’t tell him that.”

“Oh, I know. Our secret,” Rome smiled.

“He doesn’t think that I could reciprocate,” Aziraphale said. “He admitted how he felt like he was ashamed of it. Like he was expecting…”

“I imagine, in Hell, love’s not really kosher,” Rome suggested. “Or, opposite of kosher, since it’s Hell.”[4]

“Oh, yes, probably,” Aziraphale agreed. “But I also think, well… he doesn’t think he could be loved.”

“Probably,” Rome said.

“How can he not see how wonderful he is?” Aziraphale seemed pained at the thought. “He’s so… brave and intelligent and handsome and _lovely_.”

“I can’t speak for him,” Rome said. “But I can say that, well, when you realize someone or something that was supposed to love you unconditionally… doesn’t, it makes you feel like you can’t be loved. It’s easier to abstain from that source of pain than to, well, risk it again.”

“I would never hurt him, or I would never mean to. Not really. Not like that.”

“But you do hurt him. You spent years pushing him away to protect him, but he didn’t know that part. All he got was the pushing away,” Rome said. Aziraphale reacted with a look of dawning horror.

“I’ve ruined everything,” Aziraphale declared.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Rome chastised him. “It’s messy, but it isn’t ruined.” She offered him a reassuring smile and folded her hands over his, a comfort.

“I can tell why She chose you,” Aziraphale said.

“Sorry?” Rome asked.

“If only Heaven realized…” Aziraphale said. “I know they’re, well, too wrapped up in this war, but if they realized what you are, who you are, what She wants… surely they can’t, I mean, deny what it means.”

“Of course, they can,” Rome said. “If they really, truly cared about Her and Her creation, there never would have been an apocalypse for you to avert. I don’t know the full history, but I know totalitarianism when I see it.”

“Totalitarianism,” Aziraphale repeated. “You really, well, some would call that blasphemy.”

“I think I get immunity from blasphemy,” Rome said, “You know, cooking this little tyke.” She placed a hand over her abdomen, still too flat to notice in her formless clothes. “But, yeah, I think that. It’s honorable of you to want to fix them. To save them, but it’s not your responsibility. You don’t owe them anything. And, and they won’t take it well. To an abusive individual or institution, any sign of disagreement is considered a betrayal. It’ll take more than polite conversation.”

“What do you think it will take?”

“I don’t know, haven’t, well, considered,” Rome said.

“I understand,” Aziraphale said. “Thank you. For helping me. Talking to me.”

“Well, that’s what friends are for,” Rome said. Aziraphale smiled at her so brightly she found herself wanting to cry. “There’s a café and bakery downstairs. I should probably have breakfast, now that I think about it. Care to join me?”

“You should probably change first. Not that your clothing choices for sleep aren’t… charming.”

“Shirt’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Rome looked down at Jesus atop a dinosaur with fondness.

“Historically inaccurate,” Aziraphale offered.

Fifteen minutes later, they were at a table. Rome decided to text Crowley to _actually_ communicate with him instead of just spying on his internal monologue with her God-given prayer-based telepathy.

Me: _Just checking in, txt me if you need anything._

HissHissBitch: _Can you kill me?_

Me: _Maybe? But I won’t, sorry, hon_

HissHissBitch: _You’re useless, then_

Me: _Pot says to kettle_

HissHissBitch: _I hate you_

Me: 😊

Me: _How drunk are you btw?_

HissHissBitch: _Not drunk. At a park_.

Me: _Well, if you need a booze buddy…_

HissHissBitch: _You can’t drink_

Me: _I can chaperone_

HissHissBitch: _To keep me from doing something stupid?_

HissHissBitch: _You underestimate my power._

HissHissBitch: _I do stupid things sober too._

Me: _Yeah, I know_.

HissHissBitch: _Is angel ok?_

Me: _Worried about you_.

HissHissBitch: _Shut up_

Me: _I’m distracting him with food._

Me: _We talked a bit._

HissHissBitch: _Should I say thank you?_

Me: _No, you’re Gucci_

HissHissBitch: _Does he hate me?_

HissHissBitch: _Ignore that last text._

Me: _No more than usual._

Me: _I refuse to_

Me: _He’s guilty._

HissHissBitch: _That’s worse_.

HissHissBitch: _Do I want to know why?_

Me: _Not from me._

“Is that Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. Rome didn’t realize he came back from the pastry case.

“Yeah,” Rome said.

“Is he… alright?”

“You don’t need to worry,” Rome assured Aziraphale.

Me: _Keep me posted, please._

“Oh, good.”

HissHissBitch: _Keep angel happy today, then maybe I’ll drink in your presence. Not his. Not yet._

Me: _Okay, I’ll text you an address for a place to meet when you’re ready_.

“Do you know when… he’s coming back?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not yet.”

* * *

ROME AND AZIRAPHALE got along quite well. This wasn’t their first time touring without Crowley, although it was undoubtedly the most significant. They went to a Magics Theater and Museum, walked the boardwalk of Lady Bird Lake, and annihilated a small group of teenagers in a game of Laser Tag. Technically they were in a solo arena, but between Aziraphale’s angelic senses and Rome’s skill with a phaser, they ranked first and second respectively once the game ended. They sampled a proper Texas barbecue for lunch and then fine dining Italian for dinner. Their after-dinner entertainment of the bats coming out from under Statesman bridge as dusk fell, and Rome getting caught up in a very friendly swarm of bats who wanted to say hello.[5]

Once they got settled again in the hotel room, Rome collapsed in one of the couches. Aziraphale and her were midway through a conversation about Shakespeare.

“I don’t know, I’ve never really been able to regard the romance between Romeo and Juliet with the caveat that they were children. You know? Juliet was fourteen or something. Of course, they were so dramatic about it,” Rome explained. “The real tragedy isn’t that this great romance didn’t get a happy ending, it’s that children killed themselves over a meaningless feud.”

“Well, I understand in the modern context that could be your interpretation, but I can assure you, when seeing it at the Globe, onstage, the romance is the emotional core of the show,” Aziraphale said.

“Whatever my favorite couple in Shakespeare is and always has been Benedict and Beatrice,” Rome said. “It’s the quintessential enemies-to-lovers.”

“A favorite trope of yours?”

“Is it obvious?” Rome asked. “I mean, I fell in love with them after watching that performance with Cath-” Her phone buzzed, and she checked it immediately.

HissHissBitch: _I’m going to the place. If you want to watch me drink._

“Is that Crowley?”

“Yeah,” Rome said. “Do you mind if I head out to talk to him?”

“He’s not coming here?”

“Not yet,” Rome said. “He wants to have a chat and a drink. You alright with that?”

“It’ll be good for him,” Aziraphale said politely. “Be careful.”

“Of course,” Rome said. “I’ll call this suite if I need you. Alright?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded. “I’ll busy myself with a book, I suppose.” His smile was a bit sad. “Or perhaps I’ll look into your music recommendations.”

“Believe me, you’ll like _Hamilton_ ,” Rome assured him.

Me: _omw_

Rome left the hotel and walked four blocks to the warehouse district of downtown Austin. The bar in question was a warehouse painted black, with multiple rainbow pride flags hanging on mounts around the sides of the building. Rome pushed inside past the lovely, weighty oak doors and to the spacious interior of the establishment, full of exposed brickwork plumbing. The furniture wasn’t necessarily rustic, but it wasn’t high-tech and sleek. It was some moderation of the two, polished but worn. The people milling about weren’t in excess, it was a weeknight, after all. There were a handful of drag queens milling about, probably for a performance later in the evening, and a lot of groups milling about with bottles of beer. The Beach Boys were playing over the speakers, oddly mournful and soothing, and far from the modernity, one would expect.[6] Crowley, of course, was sitting at the bar with a bottle of whiskey he was drinking straight from the bottle’s mouth. Rome dropped into the seat beside the beleaguered demon. He looked mostly put together, but it was a show, she could feel him fraying a bit at the edges.

“Need something, miss?” The bartender asked.

“Do you have anything nonalcoholic with ginger in it?” Rome asked.

“Some virgin cocktails and ginger beer.”

“Ginger beer then,” Rome said. She was not a cocktail girl. He handed her a green bottle.

“Put it on my tab,” Crowley spoke up, his voice a low drawl, but not yet a slur.

“You with him?” the bartender asked.

“We’re pals,” Rome agreed with a nod. The bartender was satisfied and went to the next customer. Rome took a sip of the drink and let the slight spice of the sweet-bitter drink linger in her mouth for a moment. She and Crowley drank in silence for a few minutes.

“Where’s the lecture?” Crowley asked.

“You need a lecture?” Rome asked.

“No, but I thought you would,” Crowley said.

“I’m here as a friend. Would you prefer I be a mom[7]?”

“Eugh,” he made a grumbled sound of disgust. Rome accepted it to mean that he preferred the pretense of friendship rather than parenthood and took a long and deep swig. “Aziraphale?” Crowley finally asked.

“I’ve been keeping him busy,” Rome assured him. “It’s been alright. Never should’ve given him a gun, though.”

“ _What_?”

“We played laser tag.”

“You played _laser tag_?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Rome shrugged.

“Did he hurt himself?”

“He made teenagers cry and then felt bad about it.”

“Ah,” Crowley said. He stared contemplatively at nothing. Rome waited for the conversation to pick up, and if it didn’t, she would just sit with him the whole time. She looked at some of the entertainers, watched the dance floor, enjoyed the music and ambiance. It was probably twenty minutes later that Crowley tried talking again. “Did he tell you what happened?”

“Didn’t have to,” Rome said. “Y’all talked about it. He’s a bit slow on the uptake, and you’re wallowing in self-pity.”

“He doesn’t feel the same way,” Crowley insisted.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Rome replied.

“I don’t deserve him.”

“You don’t get to decide that, either.”

“You’re right, I didn’t get to, that decision was made for me,” Crowley pointed a hand up at the sky. Then he made a whistling noise as he slammed his hand against the table. Falling. “I didn’t mean to do it, you know. I didn’t know I would. I just… I thought… oh, it doesn’t matter.”

“If you say so,” Rome said. “But if you do want to talk about it-”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Crowley said.

“Suppose you’re right,” Rome agreed. “Never been thrown out of Heaven.” She took a slow sip. “I was thrown down the stairs a couple dozen times. And, you know, my father liked to use the switch on our feet when we misbehaved. That way, we felt it for a while after, you know, every step.”

“It’s not the same,” Crowley snarled. Rome brushed past his lashing out.

“Similar, though,” Rome continued. “In consequence. Because your parents are supposed to love you, right? Supposed to… no matter what mistakes you make. And, well, once you realize that it’s not unconditional, that love’s a thing that can be taken away from you, you don’t want to risk losing it ever again. And you can’t lose what you don’t have.”

“He doesn’t feel the same way,” Crowley insisted. “He told me. I asked for holy water as a protection in case Hell realized I was working with him. He refused, kept blathering on about how he’d be punished for fraternizing and, oh, clearly, I’m just a suicidal demon who’d dump it on himself. A century later, he finally caved. But right before telling me I go too fast for him. He’s barely seen me as an equal, he certainly doesn’t see me… that way.”

“And you took all of that as a ‘no?’” Rome asked.

“He said – during Armageddon, or leading up to it – that we weren’t friends. That didn’t like me. He didn’t mean it, I think, but… well, I wanted to leave with him and be safe. And he didn’t.”

Rome sighed, “I won’t speak for Aziraphale, but I will say that, well, it sounds like he was scared. You know, the worst part about someone who’s supposed to love you hurting you and treating you like shit is sometimes you don’t get kicked out, and you don’t run away. You stay, you’re trapped. You keep hoping if you’re just a bit better, if you’re just more obedient, then there won’t be a problem anymore. Or maybe you’re noble enough to bear the punishment or suffering because you know if you don’t, someone else is going to be a victim to it, and they’re going to have it way worse than you would. Leaving is hard.”

“Speaking from experience?” Crowley asked. Rome nodded. “And you think that Aziraphale-”

“-deserves to be able to tell you what he meant by the things he said, since only he really knows. Not me, not you, him,” Rome said. “The hard thing about talking to people about difficult things is you can’t leave when gets uncomfortable.”

“So, you left. Your family.”

“Yeah,” Rome admitted.

“Do you regret it?”

“Sometimes. But then I remember why I did.”

Crowley took a deep swig, “I didn’t mean to Fall, you know.”

“I know,” Rome said. Crowley opened his mouth to say something and then closed it. They sat in silence for a while, Crowley clearly mulling something over. Rome gave him a place to start, “We could play twenty questions and indulge in shared sorrow. You know, so it’s fair. You have as much blackmail material as I do.”

“This how you make friends? Swapping sob stories?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Rome said. “Never had anyone I considered a friend until I met you and Aziraphale. Your turn.”

“Ask away.”

“How long have you been in love with Aziraphale?”

Crowley sighed and was quiet for a moment before muttering, “Since Eden.”

“Really?” Rome gaped.

“I mean… he… he gave away his flaming sword, defying God’s orders, out of kindness. And then – _and then_ – he lied to her about it.”

“She had to know he was lying.”

“Probably! And he got away with it, the bastard. And, well, he was kind to me, as well. He offered me shelter under his wing during the first rain. He was better than Heaven as I remembered. It was properly good, you know? He didn’t care if he was doing the correct thing like the Great Plan was some checklist, he did what he thought was morally right. It was… well… he was everything I wanted to be.” Crowley sighed. “Stupid, right?”

“No,” Rome shook her head. “It’s… sweet.”

“I’m not sweet.”

Rome snorted, “Right, yes, very bitter and salty, my mistake.”

“My turn. Your nightmares, what are they about?”

Rome sighed, “They’re not nightmares.” Even behind his glasses, the disbelief was apparent in Crowley’s expression. She sighed again, “They’re awful, but they’re not nightmares. They’re real.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can hear praying,” Rome said. “And when I’m asleep, I hear it. Sometimes if there’s an epicenter of prayer, I see it too. You know, a lot of people pray for things, but some are… louder isn’t the right word. Suffering is more significant, harder to ignore. So, I close my eyes, and I’m drawn to a war-torn village, a hospital full of children dying of malaria, refugees, mourning mothers, soldiers swept up in a war they have no stake in.”

“So, She’s punishing you?”

“No, no,” Rome shook her head. “Just because punishment brings suffering doesn’t mean all suffering is a punishment. Besides, it’s not my suffering. I know it. I feel it when I allow myself to, but… how do you think I knew how to help all those refugees? That man I spoke to? He was having a crisis of faith, and I heard it and I… well, I took advantage of it.”

“Can you hear me?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah,” Rome admitted reluctantly.

“So, the people of the world pray to God, and you hear?”

“They don’t have to pray to God. They just need to pray. I mean, you should… get it… right?”

“Angels can’t hear prayers. Demons definitely don’t.”

“Huh,” Rome said. Her fingers played across the edges of her bottle like she was running through an arpeggio.

“Well?” Crowley asked.

“Well, what?”

“If you heard what I was asking Her… do you have the answer?”

Rome sighed, “No, I don’t have _the_ answer. Sometimes I doubt if anyone could ever really know _the_ answer. She could have an answer, you could have an answer, it’s all subjective.” She sighed. “What are you certain of, the things you are absolutely certain of? With no doubt?”

“What are you on about?”

“I’m only certain of two things, at any point in time: my own consciousness, and this very present moment. Everything else, there’s uncertainty: your existence, this room’s existence, the past, my own memories, the color purple. It could be argued that none of it exists, or has existed, until this very moment, or exists in a way that I think it does. You know, the arguments Descartes made when he dissected Aristotelian assumptions and revolutionized philosophical thought. Of course, there was a semblance of those arguments in Pre-Socratic – nevermind. Anyway, the reality is subjective, defined by an individual mind, because the individual mind cannot be certain of anything but itself. The only answers I have are the ones that I came up with or the ones I agree with. Of course, under the assumption that my interpretation of everything is subjective and self-constructed, I also invented whatever I agree with for me to be able to agree with it.”

“Philosophy is _exhausting_.”

“Yeah,” Rome agreed. “Sorry about that. Anyway, I don’t know enough about Falling to… I can’t say any answer of mine would be based on analysis and reason. But… I think if it was going to happen, it would’ve happened long before now. Why… why do angels Fall? I know it has something to do with rebelling from Heaven, but, I mean, hasn’t he already done that?”

“He has.”

“Well… why did you Fall? If you’re alright answering that. It’s fine if you aren’t.”

“I…” Crowley was starting to quiver. “I don’t know. Not really. You’re not given a-a-a _receipt_ or something. I wasn’t…”

“Hey, hey, hey,” she said gently. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Crowley shook his head, “You asked. Nobody ever asked. It would be, dunno, hippo-something not to answer.”

“Nobody asked?” Rome echoed. She would have thought Aziraphale at least did over the last six thousand years. But maybe he knew, or it was taboo or something.

“It’s a long story,” Crowley justified.

“We’ve got time,” Rome replied.

“I can’t tell it drunk,” Crowley said. “Hold on,” He made a face, and his bottle of whiskey refilled. He made a face and then sighed. He glanced at Rome wearily before committing, “Before… Earth, the Almighty, announced Her Great Plan. She’d been working on the Universe and Heaven for, I mean, time wasn’t as rigid as it now,[8] but as long as there had been something. And now, she said that we now had roles and stuff, that there would be this new creation and all these animals and plants and humans. And the humans were important, the most important thing, in this new creation, they’d have choices and free will and the like. And it was our job to help them and to love them more than we loved Her. And then She went off to… create, I suppose. Play Her games, work in mysterious ways. She left the Archangels in charge of the first choir-slash-sphere-whatever – I never really understood the job description - to prepare for humanity to help them, the second choir was in charge of coordinating all these new bylaws and natural laws she was coming up with, and the third choir for protecting her creation. It was more complicated than that, but it’s been a long time. And there was one seraph, Lucifer, we called him Morningstar because he was so… bright. He fancied himself as Her favorite. Well, She left to create, and I suppose he no longer felt like the favorite. He went from being Her personal attendant to just reminding everybody of Her last orders with the rest of the Archangels.”

“So, was it like, older sibling complex? Mad about the new baby?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “It didn’t seem so bad at first, a comment here, a joke there. I liked Lucifer, you know, most of the Fallen did. A lot of the not-Fallen did too. And we all loved him like we were supposed to. But those jokes and comments turned into an actual conversation, see. A lot of angels didn’t like Her new orders. They started asking what was going to be so great about humans, why were we supposed to be helping them, why angels weren’t good enough for Her, what makes them better than us? We’re Heaven, we’re angels, we’re already perfect, right? And then others pushed back at these questions, it’s the Divine Plan, we’re supposed to do what She says, that’s why she made us, no free will, yadda, yadda. I had questions of my own, a lot of questions. Why does the plan account for volcanoes and viruses and all these nasty little things that’ll make humans suffer? Why do I have to heal them in the first place if you can make it, so they never get sick? What’s the point in testing them if you know everything they’re going to do? Why, if we’re supposed to love them, will we also be able to kill them by the thousands by filing form 243-DW? And, you know, the Archangel job basically became saying ‘shut up, do what you’re told, don’t ask questions.’ So, I went to where I was allowed to ask questions, found some like-minded sorts across all the hierarchies. Little did I know those secret meetings of dissent were, well, a rebellion. Or, it was what became the rebellion I wasn’t in Heaven a lot, popped off to help with the stars, consulted a bit on botany. All of a sudden, I come back to Heaven. And then Lucifer showed up and asked me to join him, and before I knew it, angels were fighting angels, legions against legions. It was, well, a third of Heaven that joined the rebellion for old Lucifer. And there was fighting, angels killed angels for the first time, it was the first war.”

“Did you fight for Lucifer?”

“No. But I didn’t fight for Heaven either. I didn’t… fight. I wasn’t a soldier, not like the rest of the Archangels. When there was war, I used my talents indiscriminately. And all of a sudden, Michael showed up, lance swinging. Michael and Lucifer dueled, and Lucifer was struck down, and we thought he’d be offed, Michael was calling on the Almighty to help permanently keep the dissenters out of Heaven. I think Michael meant destroying Lucifer and the guys for good, but instead, the floor vanished from beneath him, and he Fell. And then, the floor opened under more feet, and soon it was about fifteen million angels or so Falling to Earth, me included.”

“You Fell to Earth?’

“Earth-in-progress. It was mostly on fire, molten rock, lots of sulfur, burning orange, and blue. Lucifer created Hell out of some of her supplies lying about. The little pocket dimension of his own making, which is probably why it smells so bad. He made this grand speech about how out responsibility was now to destroy Heaven and disprove God. We were supposed to prove Her humans would be imperfect, unworthy of Her love, unworthy of our love. And then, one day, we would have a second chance in the glorious revolution, and he would bring about the end of Creation. He told us we couldn’t use our old names, we weren’t Heaven’s servants, we were his. We were to be the opposite of Heaven, you know, do everything as un-Heavenly as possible. We were warped from our injuries from the Fall, and sorry attempts to heal started calling us _demons_ just to hammer in the point. He started calling himself Satan, I don’t know if it was him or Her that made us forget our old names, I think because he’s still allowed to know his, it might’ve been his doing. So, something decided I was the demon Crawley, and Satan started handing out his own assignments. I got the first one in the new Earth once it was finished for old times’ sake or something, and Adam and Eve were a bit acquainted, make some trouble. And, well, you know the rest.”

“How many demons are there now?”

“Ten million. Ten million angels, too, I think.”

“So, what happened to the other five million or so demons?”

“Well, the transition stage was rough. A lot of the fallen didn’t have what it took to be a demon, orientation was a bit grisly. And, you know, demons kill each other all the time for any reason, really, being un-Heavenly, seems natural. A few got wiped out by humanity along the way. Exorcism here, holy water there, you know.”

“And what about the twenty million angels?” Rome asked. “You said there was a third in the rebellion, about fifteen million. That puts heaven’s army at about thirty million, right? So, what about the other twenty million?”

It was a question that Crowley had never considered before, and that was clear by the way his face went from contemplative to a dull, stunned horror, “Well,” Crowley said. “Some died in the war the first time, but not that many. Maybe Aziraphale wasn’t the first to be executed – or attempted to be executed - by Hellfire.[9] Because I know there’s no way that many Fell.”

“Do you know for certain of a single angel that Fell since that war?” Rome asked. “Maybe with the Nephilim?”

Crowley gave a long, labored sort of noise in the back of his throat, “No. The Nephilim were all drowned in The Flood. Don’t know what happened to their parents, but we never had some grand orientation for a bunch of fallen angels mourning dead human-hybrid children. I would’ve remembered that. There were a few newly Fallen, here and there, they always were fairly nasty. I haven’t heard of a Fallen angel though for the last few millennia, not since the first Christ. Maybe Heaven realized if they tossed down their dissenters, they’d just give their adversary more soldiers, started burning them up instead. You’d think there’d be an official announcement.”

“Actions speak louder than words.” Rome shrugged. She added, “And intentions are just as important as consequences, if not more.” Rome looked away from Crowley pointedly, unable to say these next things to his face, “They say all is fair in love and war, but I’ve always thought it’s only because nothing is fair, the whole concept of fair becomes irrelevant.”

“I wouldn’t go back,” Crowley said. “Even if I could.”

“I know,” Rome said. “Why would you want to? It seems like both places suck, and you’ve gotten a better deal in the middle. A lot of the time, when people say there’s an either-or, it’s a bit of a lie, intended or not. If there’s two options, more often than not there’s more than those two options. You can have yes, and no, and maybe, and both, and nothing at all. That’s why free will is so important. It’s awful that you lost that ability to choose what happened to you.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“You don’t have it. What you’ve got of mine is empathy, sympathy.”

“That’s worse.”

“Maybe so. When I say you can’t decide who loves you, I mean it that it’s every individual’s choice who they love, and it’s their decision when to give it and who deserves it. It’s not you deserve love, or you don’t deserve it in broad strokes, love’s a personal thing. Maybe you don’t have Heaven’s, not that I think Heaven really has any anymore, and Maybe you don’t have Hers, but I didn’t think I had it either. My point is, that doesn’t mean you can’t ever have any. You are loved more than you know.”

“I thought you weren’t going to speak for Aziraphale.”

“I’m speaking for myself, you sad sack. You and that angel are the closest things I’ve ever gotten to friendship or a proper family. I know that’s pathetic. I’ll shut up now and leave if you need me to, and you can get drunk again.” He was quiet, so she glanced at him. He was gaping at her. He had been in a fragile state all night, but this was even more vulnerability than when he recounted his Fall.

“You shouldn’t say that,” he managed.

“Well, I did,” Rome said. “And I’m not retracting it.”

Crowley shrugged in defeat, but he looked a little relieved. He swung back his refilled bottle and chugged in with long gulps, a small drizzle of liquor running down the side of his mouth. “Can you dance?”

“I’m horrible at it.”

“Me too,” he stood up and offered her his hand, moving to the dance floor. She let out an abrupt giggle and accepted his offer. They took the dance floor and were both so absolutely horrendous that it came around to be endearing and amusing to watch them enjoy themselves, particularly when Rome and Crowley attempted line-dancing to Shania Twain.[10]

* * *

[1] She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that depicted Jesus Christ, riding a T-rex. She also had a pair of teal velour track pants on, with _Juicy_ emblazoned on her backside.

[2] Constructing intricate rituals, one might say.

[3] And the brioche.

[4] Rome regretted this analogy a bit because the concept of kosher and the concept of Hell weren’t necessarily seen in the same theological systems of belief. Still, the analogy had been made, and she would wince about it quietly forevermore.

[5] Yet again, neither of them noticed camera phones recording. It took all of thirty-seven minutes for someone to realize the internationally trending “Zoo Girl” and “Bat Girl” were the same person. As Zoo Girl was on the decline as her status of the meme of the month, the repeat performance suddenly reinstated public interest with a fervor. Many wondered if she was an animal behavioral specialist, others were quite certain she was a witch of sorts. Neither was an entirely accurate assumption but did grasp the peculiarity of her. While some people with an obsessive interest in Zoo Girl already knew her identity, others learned it that evening when someone, meaning no ill, found her rarely-used social media and publicized it.

[6] _Wouldn’t it be nice to live together, in the kind of world where we belong? You know it’s gonna make it that much better when we can say goodnight and stay together…_

[7] Technically, Rome was best suited to be an intermediate of both. A “mom friend” as the kids these days are calling it.

[8] Technically, it didn’t exist yet.

[9] The reality was a little bit worse. More on that later.

[10] A particularly drunk group of young men didn’t think about the consequences of posting nightclub videos of strangers dancing to “Man, I Feel Like A Woman!” without their permission. An hour later, someone realized Zoo Girl/Bat Girl was the same woman in the video posted to his friend’s Instagram. The conspiracy deepened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like faster updates, please comment! I appreciate your feedback in all forms, but honestly, getting comments is what motivates me to continue projects like these the most. Thank you so much for reading.


	19. At Worst The World Will Sing Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's everyone enjoying life under quarantine? My spring break has been extended, and it's very likely we'll be schooling remotely after that, which will be interesting. A lot of stuff in my life is up in the air right now due to current events. It's nice to have projects like these to focus on instead.
> 
> A few notes for this chapter:  
>  \- It's very plotty, and there's a fair bit of action.  
>  \- I am so sorry.

PHINEAS THORNTON’S PLANS, as poorly laid as they were, consisted of figuring out who the woman, known across social media as “Zoo Girl,” really was. He believed wholeheartedly that she was the same woman who convinced the man Robert Kusach to release imprisoned refugees from government holding. Jolene was quite sure that Phineas was right, as Agnes’ prophecies suggested he would misinterpret the Earthly Mother as an agent of satanic forces. Agnes’s advice continued to tell Jolene to stay at this compound and in the religious leader’s graces, as she needed to use him to protect the Mother of Christ. And so, Jolene found herself becoming Thornton’s second in command. It wasn’t that hard. Unlike the rest of the paramilitary men who worked for him because of racially motivated nationalist ideals justified religious extremism, Jolene actually seemed to agree with his apocalyptic predictions. He had these elaborate theories and timelines of how the next few months would unfold in the same way as John the Revelator predicted, but none of these predictions carried the same weight that Jolene was used to for prophecies. It seemed that this John of Patmos had absolutely nothing in the capacity of an oddity as the nice and accurate Agnes Nutter. But the point wasn’t that Jolene believed Thornton, it was that he believed her.

Despite taking the internet’s attention, as a human who could safely reside in a swarm of bees and play games with cobras through a layer of plexiglass clearly was unusual, it wasn’t elementary to figure out who the woman was. Phineas wanted to know who she was but was quite satisfied with Jolene’s assurance that the woman would reveal her identity as time went on. As it so happened, Jolene was more correct than she anticipated. Two weeks later, the video of Bat Girl and the connection between Bat Girl and Zoo Girl took the internet by storm yet again, and someone who suspected that they recognized her as an acquaintance from college quickly doxed the new meme, finding her Twitter and Instagram. They were oft unused without updates in months, but they did exist.

“Rosemarie Lowell,” Jolene said, striding into Phineas’ Thornton’s office. “She’s been last seen in Austin, Texas, two hours ago. She had another unexplained event that went viral, this time with the bats at Statesman Bridge.”

“She’s a few hours away,” Phineas said. He stood up with a smile, “I knew I chose this location for a reason. It brings us intersected with the path of Satan’s consort.”

“You think she’ll pass through?” Jolene asked.

“I believe we have the men and the supplies to seek her out,” Phineas replied. “Have you had any dreams about this?”

“I…” Jolene sighed. She thought back to the last prophecies. Agnes was assuring her, as horrible as it was, if she kept here, she would have a chance to save the mother from this army. All it would take was the demon’s internment and rescue. “I don’t know. It’s been confusing lately. All I’ve been getting is the thought of a demon, specifically a demon here, under our supervision.”

“So, we could have a chance at imprisoning her,” Phineas said. “Keep updated on her location. We’ll assemble a small team to head to Austin and locate her.”

“Yes, sir,” Jolene said with a nod.

She watched from the plantation home’s deck as two jeeps filled with men in uniform – dark body armor and clothes with the Order’s insignia on the shoulder and chest. It was a perfectly square cross inlaid in a trefoil. Phineas Thornton’s Order de Molay was a cross between a trained paramilitary organization and a religious cult. He had money from somewhere, and he used it to turn this plantation into a headquarters and barracks for this organization. He had over a hundred men ‘enlisted’ to his Order, some of them were sent off to recruit while the rest guarded the wooded area and trained for a war that they thought would be against all the “enemies of God.” Jolene desperately hoped that they were on an FBI watchlist somewhere.

* * *

GABRIEL AND BEELZEBUB had been meeting far more often than usual after Gabriel’s failed interrogation of the human woman, Rosemarie Lowell. Their meetings always followed the same, steady script. Gabriel would jog through a public park, usually, somewhere that was a bit muddy and decrepit to suit Beelzebub’s tastes. Then the pair of them would share a bench, converse as needed, and go their separate ways. After his interrogation of Lowell, he had spoken to Beelzebub and explained the unusual nature of this woman. Somehow, she was able to manipulate her reality, at least to the extent that she was immune to Hastur and Gabriel’s interrogation techniques. Humans weren’t supposed to be able to have the strength.

“We have a demon who can survive holy water, an angel who can survive hellfire, and a human who can manipulate reality,” Gabriel summarized the problem at hand. “And no understanding as to how.”

“You zzzaid the human believed that she wazzz acting on behalf of the Divine Plan,” Beelzebub said. The Prince of Hell looked with interest at the Archangel, head angled to one side, “Izzz there a chanzzzze she is right?”

“If there was an agent of Heaven on Earth, the angels would have known about it,” Gabriel insisted, perhaps a tad defensive. “We always do.”

“Zzzzo you zzzay,” Beelzebub said, clearly disinterested. “If she is lying… perhapzzzz, there are other wayzzz to get her to tell the truth. She is clozzze to the angel and the demon, izzzn’t she?”

“They’ve been collaborating for at least a month,” Gabriel said.

“We azzzzumed that she was their agent,” Beelzebub said. “But it zzzzeemzz that she impliezzz they are all in allianzze. That meanzzz that we can manipulate them.”

“How?”

“We cannot kill Azzzziraphale and Crowley, and we cannot manipulate the human with our powerzzzz. But we can manipulate her in human wayzzz. Extorzzzion, blackmail, tortzzzzure.”

“Is Hell offering to do the deed?”

“I will do it perzzzzonally. However, I refuzzze to let them into Hell – _her_ into Hell. Hazzztur is zzzztill zzzztrange. Getting worzzze.”

“I can summon Aziraphale to Heaven, it will take some invocations, but he won’t have a choice.”

“And we can do thizzz without any of your colleaguezzz notizzzing?”

“There are places in Heaven that are empty enough that we shouldn’t be disturbed, not that I can allow you to wander through Heaven without supervision.”

“Zzzzzo, we’re in agreement?” Beelzebub asked. “We wait for an opportunity and summon the angel back as a ranzzzzom? What of the reprecuzzzionzzz? They won’t take kindly to that zzzzzort of interferenzzzz. We’ll need inzzzuranzzzzz. Like I mentzzzioned lazzzt time.”

“Combining holy and demonic sigils has never been done before. We have no idea what the consequences are. The combination could lead to something incredibly destructive.”

“Thizz izzz the problem with Heaven. You fear chaozzzz zzzzzo much you mizzzz out on the opportunitiezzzzz it prezzzzentzzzz.”

“And the problem with Hell is that you never think about the consequences of your actions. Your Evil ways and arrogance lead you to recklessness, and therein you’ll always lose to the glory of Heaven.”

“Glory?” Beelzebub made a face. “I think you mean _paperwork_. How many committeezzzz do your propozzzalzzzz go through before you’re allowed to take divine action? What about those miracle quotazzzz of yourzzzz? Bi-annual reportzzz? Hell is effective because we don’t worry about all that nonzzzzzenzzzze. Our deedzzzz of the day keepzzzz demonic effizzzzienzzzzy a peer-regulated activity. And conzzzzizzzztent ineffizzzzienzzzzies are identified, not by committezzzzz, but by zzzzelf-zzzzzeerving demonzzzz looking to rizzzzze in the rankzzzzz.”

“And didn’t you wind up losing the Antichrist?”

“That wazzzzz Crowley’s interferenzzzzze.”

“Well, we never lost Christ, and we have thorough filing systems,” Gabriel said.

“You juzzzzzt let him get killed.”

“The Divine Plan calls for these things.”

“Yezzzz, but never onzzzze did I remember the Almighty calling for – _how_ many formzzzz do you have up there?”

“A bit over fifty-nine thousand, upon our current review. Of course, we’ll have another joint filing and bureaucratic oversight committee in a few months, there might be as many as eighty-seven new forms introduced to our roster. I’ll be directing the council hearings.”

“You zzzzzound fond of them.”

“They’re effective.”

“My point zzzztill zzzztandzzz. If Crowley and Azzzziraphale are zzzome intermediatezzz between your zzzzzide and mine, a rezzzzztraint, temporary inzzzzzuranzzzze, combining our powerzzzz may be zzzzuccezzzzful.”

“What restraint do you propose?”

“Zzzzzomething wearable,” Beelzebub said. “Can thizzzz work? Do we have a deal?” Ze offered zir hand to Gabriel.

“I’m making far to many deals with demons these days,” Gabriel sighed as he accepted the deal.

“Should I be jealouzzzzz?” Beelzebub teased.

“Why should you be jealous?” Gabriel asked. He did not let go of zir slackening hand.

“What?” Ze was confused. Did they not have humor in Heaven? Maybe not, it was awfully stiff and stuffy up there, and Hell’s always above room temperature.

“You don’t have propriety over me,” Gabriel said suddenly, with force.

“I never zzzzaid I did. It’zzzz a joke.” Beelzebub insisted.

“Oh!” Gabriel sighed with relief. He let go. “You had me concerned for a moment there.”

“Why?”

“If our alliance was suddenly concerned with personal trifles, it would no longer remain professional. It was a simple mistake on my part, I mistook your intentions, you were just partaking in facetious humor, perfectly acceptable, well, perhaps a bit too suggestive for my standards, but you are a demon.”

“Oh…kay.”

“You’re very professional,” Gabriel insisted.

“Yezzz.” Beelzebub agreed.

* * *

ROME AND CROWLEY stumbled down the concrete walkway. Crowley was quite drunk, not the exceptional drunk he had been when he had come back after marrying Aziraphale, but certainly more drunk than Crowley was when he did marry Aziraphale. What it meant for this moment was that he felt light on his feet, mostly because he was leaning on Rome to help him walk. His saunter had turned into a stumble, after all. As they walked down the street in the early morning, having stayed until closing and then some at Crowley’s miraculous behest. Finally, Rome convinced his drunken state to walk her back to the hotel, at the very least, if he still wasn’t ready to talk to Aziraphale.

“I need to sssssober up,” Crowley said once the hotel was in sight.

“You want to do it here?” Rome asked.

“Give me a-” He made a particularly vulgar facial expression and let out a deep groan. In the drain pipes by the side of the street, dark amber liquid suddenly manifested and slipped into the grating. He wasn’t done. However, this particularly trying sobering-up ended with a loud belch that might’ve brought up a mouthful of stomach acid. He winced, and Rome handed him a bottle of Gatorade she had left the bar with. He accepted it and chugged until it was empty. “Eugh,” he tossed the container on the street.

“Pick it up, or I’ll whoop your ass,” Rome threatened. Crowley let his annoyance be known by his face and the way he snapped. Promptly, the bottle vanished.[1] Rome looked at the spot where it was with a moment of scrutiny before sighing in defeat. They continued to head down the street, Crowley was suddenly a bit jittery and nervous without all that liquid luck. Rome’s phone rang in her pocket. She picked it up, it was the hotel room number. She immediately answered, “Aziraphale.”

“I’m being sum-” Aziraphale’s voice was frantic and quite frightened, suddenly cut off by some sort of whoosh of air. The phone didn’t hang up, but the line was now absolutely silent.

“What happened?” Crowley asked suddenly.

“He called me-”

“He’s not on Earth anymore.”

“Something summoned him,” Rome guessed.

“Heaven,” Crowley’s expression went dark.

That very moment, two jeeps driving a few blocks down suddenly revved their engines sharply, letting off pops and cracks. They streaked in their direction.

“Run!” Crowley exclaimed, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the alleyway between the two buildings. It was barely narrow enough for the cars, dumpsters, debris, and iceboxes lining it. They streaked and weaved between the obstacles, breaking the line of sight. They heard one car rev to circle around the block while the other hand doors opening, boots on asphalt approaching

“Here!” Rome exclaimed, pulling him to a closed dumpster. She let go of his hand and scaled up the foul-smelling green container and vaulted over the short, fenced wall it was leaned up against, into a parking lot on the other side. Crowley managed the same maneuver after her. She didn’t waste time to see if they were being followed, the second jeep was rounding the block now, she booked it to the nearest fire escape, flying up the rickety metal stairs to the roof of the building. She ran past the cooling units, jumped over the skylights, and continued running, stopping at the opposite side. There was a second landing a story down, and then a metal awning for this building, and a metal awning about two feet lower at the neighboring building. She didn’t have time to really think much more past running. She leaped off the upper story ledge and dropped down onto the lower one with a substantial impact, knees buckling for a moment before she pushed herself back to running. She only looked behind to make sure that Crowley followed, and he did, albeit with more grace.

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere away from here!” she said. She made it to the second edge and dropped from awning to awning to the ground level. She glanced both directions, no jeeps in view, but she heard a clamor of feet in the distance. Not wanting to see who was still chasing her, she grabbed Crowley and pulled the both of them across the street to a second, much narrower alley, this one locked up with a heavy padlock. She kicked it and, with great luck[2], it popped open. The alleyway led to an interior courtyard of a hotel, complete with a mezzanine and a pool.

“Can you get the keycard thing?” Rome asked as they went to the door. Crowley twitched his hand, and the door flung open. They pushed inside and closed it behind them, locking them in. They found a spot to lay low without breaking into a room, an alcove by the elevators. “They looked like _mercenaries_ ,” Rome gasped, with the adrenaline fading, the burning in her lungs and throat was becoming overbearing.

“They were human,” Crowley said. “I’ve never known Heaven or Hell to hire human help for these sorts of things.”

“We need to get back to the Driskill, it’s two blocks over,” Rome said.

Before Crowley could reply, the sound of gunfire shattered the glass of the same door they used to let themselves in. A small canister rolled into the hallway, letting off a vibrant plume of white vapor. Rome covered her nose and mouth as they both got a face full of it. It smelled and felt just like steam, but she didn’t want to wait around for worse symptoms. She and Crowley dove into an elevator and pressed the highest floor up. Crowley collapsed, gagging on something. She looked at him in horror as his face looked like it had been blowtorched. The skin was pink and blistering, blood streaked out from behind his glasses. It was a holy water gas canister.

“No, no, no, come on, you’re not pulling a Wicked Witch of the West on me today, buddy,” Rome said, worrying over who was armed with these sorts of assault weapons. They were probably going up the stairwells this very moment, ready to shoot the pair of them point-blank as soon as the doors opened. Rome pressed the alarm button on the elevator and made it shut off. The whole thing jolted as the brakes were applied. Rome crouched down over Crowley and pushed his glasses up. She didn’t know what all-yellow eyes would look like bloodshot, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. She wiped streaks of the inhumanly dark blood off his scalded face, he hissed in pain. “ _Crowley_.”

“Not that bad,” Crowley said. “Must be weak.” Despite his words, Crowley looked to be in severe pain. He was bleeding from the mouth now.

“How do I fix it?” Rome asked.

“Get Aziraphale. If you can’t, then – then don’t stop running.”

“Crowley-”

With what was Crowley’s last miracle before the effects of the assault took their toll on him, he snapped his fingers. Rome suddenly was in a different elevator. The ancient elevator at the Driskill, which creaked and groaned, traveling slowly. A couple was making out in it when she appeared out of nowhere. They both slammed against one of the walls, the woman screamed. Before she could wield her handbag, the doors rolled open.

“Hidden camera,” Rome pointed at no point in particular wildly. “Don’t fuck in elevators. Pranked!” She backed out of the elevator and took off to the nearest stairwell, making it the rest of the way up to the suite she was staying in. She threw the door open and cursed as it was empty. The phone still hung off its wire on the ground. The book Aziraphale had been reading was lying on the couch. There was a slip of paper, a neatly printed and very glossy card, sitting between the pages. Rome read the address: _600 Travis Street, Houston, Texas, 77002._ _Top Floor._ There was also a foreign symbol Rome vaguely recognized as Enochian printed neatly in the silvery ink. She dropped the card, and as it fluttered to the ground, it was clear that dark red smudges stood out now against the pure white paper. Rome’s jaw jutted as she realized what had happened. She ground her teeth and blinked back tears, suddenly flooding with the realization of what had happened: she was alone now. Hail started pattering with a fury against the windows, and lightning crackled around the buildings. There was a blackout in downtown Austin after a particularly nasty bolt. And it was only in the complete darkness and even more complete silence that Rome let herself cry.

* * *

AZIRAPHALE JOLTED AWAKE and tried to move. His arms were restrained, white ropes wrapped around his forearms, and tying him to the metal armrests of an office chair. Likewise, his ankles were tied between one of the prongs of the wheelbase. The final restraint on him was a piece of warped metal, shimmering brightly in some sections while sucking darkness in others. Printed in the metal was a collection of symbols, occult and ethereal. The defense on his wrist was sapping his energy completely. He could barely see what was going on around him in the sterile brightness of, oh, fuck, this was Heaven. Memories flooded back. The bright light above him, the feeling of being pulled out of this dimension of existence. He barely made it to the phone before he blinked out entirely. What was his last thought? He was trying to speak to Rome, telling her what happened, but he was thinking of Crowley. Crowley, who he hadn’t a chance to indulge after realizing that he could. Crowley, who would never have the opportunity to know how much Aziraphale adored and loved him. Rome would tell him all she could, he was sure, but Crowley would never hear it from him. And now here he was, in Heaven. Had Hell gone after Crowley? What about Rome? Usually, where energy flickered and his chest stirred at the thought of the people he cared about in danger, there was nothing but an empty ache.

“Don’t worry, this is temporary,” A low voice said. Gabriel. Aziraphale squinted through the heavenly haze to see the Archangel. Beside him, someone Aziraphale was not expecting to see. Beelzebub, of all people. They had, well, Rome had suggested they were collaborating, and now here it was, before his very eyes. “We just need a guarantee that we’ll be given the truth this time regarding your plans with the human. Once we’ve been given the truth, you’ll be allowed to leave.

Aziraphale looked down at this… _thing_ on his wrist. “Like it?” Beelzebub asked. “Gabriel and I created it, we thought combining _our_ powerzzzz would render yourzzz… inconzzzequenzzzial. We have one for Crowley too when he comezzzzz.”

Gabriel regarded Aziraphale with a cold stare, “We’ll come back when you’re useful.” They disappeared behind him, walking further into the distance. Wherever he was in Heaven, it was too bright and indistinguishable from the rest of it. Aziraphale had no choice but to succumb to the blinding emptiness around him. Crowley would come, he didn’t care what Beelzebub and Gabriel thought, Crowley always came.

* * *

CROWLEY CAME TO in a basement. He wished, probably, that he could say it was the first time that he had landed himself like this, but demons were the sort to have unfortunate nightly consequences. This consequence, however, was not one of drunken debauchery. Crowley remembered, quite painfully, the moments leading up to him dropping unconscious. He and Rome had been walking back to the hotel when all of a sudden, humans with large weapons and loud cars came upon them. He and Rome ran for safety, but it wasn’t enough. They had holy water weapons, Crowley recalled. The first brush of vapor against his flesh and it started to burn and bleed, searing with physical pain he hadn’t felt since falling. Crowley and Rome had fallen into an elevator, she had barricaded them in, but it was only a matter of time, and, well, she was more useful than he was. With his last strength, he had sent her to safety. He was aware he could die then and there. Not just discorporation, if they had enough of those weapons, he would burn and burn until there was nothing left but a smoking husk of a demon. There was so much he wanted yet, apologies he owed Aziraphale, things he had always wanted to tell the angel, to do to and with the angel. But if he wouldn’t have those, he could have a final reminder that, at least at one moment in time, the angel loved him enough to marry him. He found the ring tucked safely in his breast pocket, always near to his heart[3], and he put it on with trembling hands. Not long after, the doors were wrenched open by those shooters just in time for him to pass out.

Now he was awake, so he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t see where he was. He couldn’t… he couldn’t see much of anything. It was dark, but usually, he could see in the dark, he was a demon, his eyes were that of a serpent, his night vision was phenomenal. No, it was dark here because his eyes weren’t working, he realized. The holy water must’ve… maybe it wasn’t permanent. But it felt horrible. His eyes burned, he realized, they ached and seared, and were swollen shut. As did his face, where the water hand brushed him. Not even droplets, just the curling silvery vapor, was enough to cause him such pain. He wasn’t sure if it was a mercy or a punishment that he was still alive. The ground crackled with a dull heat, this place was consecrated, but much like the water, it was a poor sort of Holy. Still, it was like lying on a plate on sun-seared metal. He was stiff and aching all over, but he didn’t feel any chains on his wrists or ankles. Maybe he wasn’t as restrained as he thought. Carefully, painfully, he tried mapping out his surroundings without sight, even though it made his fingers twitch and tremble with pain.

Beneath his hands, there were wooden boards of a hardwood floor, the grooves were unusual, strange carved markings under his hands. He traced them, but he had a hard time visualizing what he was seeing. He continued a shuffling crawl in one direction until he hit a wall. It wasn’t a real wall, there was no stucco or stone or glass. It was something far more durable, some invisible (he assumed) barrier constructed into a circle around him. One he couldn’t pass, but his breath didn’t reflect off of. He realized he was in a demon trap with a rush of horror, the markings in the wood, and his inability to leave this circular area aligning in his head.

“Welcome,” A low voice said. It had a curling lilt to it and left a sickly-sweet scent in the air. “My name is Phineas Thornton. You are here at the headquarters of the Order de Molay. We know you are a demon, a servant of the Great Adversary, Satan. We also know you are a guardian of a woman named Rosemarie Lowell, the harbinger of the apocalypse, whether she be the Antichrist or the consort of Satan matters not. You will tell us what you know or suffer great torment, which will only end until we have the information we desire.”

“You think Rome’s-” Crowley burst out laughing. “You religious fanatics, never ones for common sense, are you?”

“Do not mock me! The Lord chose me!”

“Nah,” Crowley said. “She’d never choose an arrogant bastard like you.”

“I will make you suffer tortures the likes of which you cannot even fathom!”

“I’m from Hell, Phineas, try me,” Crowley returned.

There was a sound of movement and a sound of skin against skin, both too distant to be in Crowley’s range.

“They will come for him,” A woman said, her voice was deep and husky, the sort of comforting and warm sound that didn’t belong in a place as skin-crawling as this. “It will all happen as is planned.”

“Will you keep an eye on him?” Phineas Thornton asked the mystery woman.

“Of course,” she assured him.

“I’ll need to prepare our defenses. If they are coming, we’ll be prepared for any demon scum.”

“I expect nothing less,” she replied fondly. Thornton's footsteps, heavy and even, departed. Hers, much gentler, edged closer. She must have dropped to her knees outside the circle, closest to where Crowley was slumped because he could smell a wave of what seemed like vanilla and coconut. “I’m sorry, I never wanted this to happen. Your friends will come, and they’ll be successful. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise you, as a friend of Agnes.”

“Agnes?” Crowley rolled the name over in his mouth. “Nutter?”

“You know her, then?”

“You- the-the letter to the bookshop?”

“I did that, yes,” she said. “I’m Jolene Davis. And I promise you, we’re on the same side.” Her vanilla-coconut scent lingered in his burned nostrils as she backed away and departed as well, leaving Crowley in his pitch blackness. Aziraphale was coming, Aziraphale and Rome, and Nutter’s girl had said it would be alright. So, he just had to wait.

* * *

[1] As it so happened, the bottle ended up at a recycling plant, but he didn’t divest this information at the time.

[2] Or perhaps a little bit of a self-fulfilling expectation.

[3] Crowley would never admit there was a romantic reason for this, he would insist it was more practical. But the symbolism was clear to even Jellyfish, which, as you may be interested to know, lack brains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I already apologized in the beginning notes, so I'm not going to do that again. That being said, I would love to hear your thoughts about this chapter. It's quite active but necessary for setting up the climax and eventual resolution of the arc that will take up Rome's first trimester. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading. I welcome and appreciate feedback in all and any forms. Please wash your hands and don't go outside unless necessary. If you're a medical professional or work in food services, custodial services, delivery, or retail, I salute you, and thank you for your service. You are the foundations of our society and modern civilization.
> 
> Until the next chapter! :)


	20. To Bethlehem It Slouched, Then It Caught A Good Look At You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome goes to Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your continued readership! I hope you like this chapter, some notes:  
>  \- I adored writing this chapter, it's one of my favorites.  
>  \- Again, we're dealing with a lot of action so there are fewer footnotes. I'm pretty sure this entire chapter is one moving scene.  
>  \- I hope the cliffhanger in the last chapter wasn't too bad to deal with, and if it was, I hope this update helps.

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND, Gabriel,” Michael said. “Why do we need to keep this quadrant on lockdown?”

They had acquired Aziraphale ten hours ago. In that time, Gabriel would have expected the demon and human to have already come here. Even if they had gone in that demon’s strange carriage that Beelzebub said they used to travel. It should not have taken more than three hours for them to arrive. Gabriel cleared out all personnel stationed between the elevator landing and the under-construction rooms where Aziraphale was being held. In preparation for their arrival, he cited an emergency meeting in which nothing was addressed but a long list of menial tasks. The meeting should have given him more than enough time, but now ten hours had passed, they were looking to return to their posts and assignments. Gabriel wasn’t expecting this.

“Gabriel?” Uriel asked.

Gabriel didn’t know what to say. This was Heaven. There were no technical difficulties, no plumbing leaks, and any remodeling had the paperwork and proposals filed years in advance. He didn’t take pride in these features of Heaven, because angels were not capable of committing sins, but he was very pleased with them. Now, he found himself wanting for Heaven to be slightly more flawed, something harmless he could exploit. This was for the greater good, after all. Part of him knew he could and should just inform them about the measures he was taking. But the other Archangels could report to the Metatron, and then it would be discovered he hadn’t elaborated thoroughly on the paperwork about the nature of this false apparition. His collaboration with the demon Beelzebub would be frowned upon with good reason. He was doing this for good reasons, to ensure actions were not taken to prevent Great Plan. Surely, they would understand that?

“I’ve been tasked with a private assignment,” Gabriel said. “On my authority, I’ve been taking measures to establish countermeasures for any further interference in the divine plan. After investigating the false apparition of the Virgin Mary, some things were revealed. I didn’t think it was significant, but things have escalated.”

“What measures?” Uriel asked. “Have you spoken to the Metatron about this?”

“How have they escalated?” Michael asked. “Why haven’t we known about them?”

Sandalphon was also there, it may be prudent to mention, but he offered very little to the conversation, “What about the paperwork?”

Gabriel offered his colleague a pained expression, “I didn’t do the paperwork.” The surprise was audible. “If you must know… Aziraphale and the demon Crowley were involved.”

“Have you found a way to kill them?” Sandalphon asked eagerly.

“No,” Gabriel said. “But, we did manage to weaken them.”

“'We?’” Uriel quoted.

“It’s… best if I show you.”

Gabriel led the other three Archangels through the opalescent halls in the direction of where Aziraphale was. Lounging in an office chair by the entrance, a guard of sorts, was Lord Beelzebub.

“Demon!” Sandalphon explained.

“Ze is here with my permission,” Gabriel said.

“What izzz the meaning of thizzz?” Beelzebub asked, looking at the four Archangels.

“I might ask the same question,” Michael said.

“We discovered Aziraphale and Crowley were proactively working against the Great Plan, yet again,” Gabriel said stiffly. “And as we all want the war to be successful, we agreed a temporary modus vivendi would allow us to be more effective at counteracting the traitors.”

“You’ve captured one of them,” Uriel said.

“And the other is on his way, or, he should be,” Gabriel said. “That is the issue. We didn’t want… collateral.”

“I’m fine with it,” Beelzebub said.

“But it’s been ten hours on Earth, and the demon hasn’t come yet,” Gabriel said. “And I don’t understand why.”

“Well, perhaps he won’t come,” Michael said. “Demons are a self-serving sort. Crowley may realize retrieving Aziraphale could be a trap and has decided that he is not worth the risk of existence.”

“You did remember to tell Crowley that we only wanted to talk?” Beelzebub asked Gabriel. It was clear from his expression that Gabriel did no such thing. Beelzebub made an angry, buzzing noise. “He will never come now! Crowley izzz the mozzzt zzzelf-zzzzerving demon there ever wazzz in Hell! He _killed_ Ligur and zzzztopped Armageddon for his amuzzzzement!”

“I always assumed that Crowley and Aziraphale were closer than Crowley with any demon, or Aziraphale with any angel,” Uriel said.

“Yes!” Gabriel pointed at Uriel excitedly. “That seems reasonable! We can still find a way to impart a message to Crowley and assure him of Aziraphale’s safety in turn for his cooperation?”

“What cooperation?” Michael asked. “You still haven’t informed us _why_ you’ve done all of this beyond ensuring no interference from the divine plan and some connection to the false apparition. What actions have they taken?”

“The human responsible for the false apparition is of their acquaintance and allegiance,” Gabriel said.

“And she told one of my demonzzz perzzzonally that they were working to prevent future Armageddon,” Beelzebub said.

“She told me something similar,” Gabriel said. “But she’s been evasive, and we hadn’t tried involving either Aziraphale or Crowley until we had the means to protect ourselves from… whatever they’ve become.”

“Thizzz ruzzze wazzz to determine how they intended to do zzzo, zzzo we were prepared.”

“Gabriel! Archangel Gabriel, sir!” An angel appeared, jogging through the halls of Heaven. They blanched when they saw Beelzebub and the four Archangels, and an imprisoned Aziraphale tied up at the far end of the room.

“What is it, Barachiel?”

“You told me to summon you when the entrance to Heaven in Houston, Texas, was being activated and keep the doors closed until your arrival,” Barachiel said.

“Yes, I know,” Gabriel replied.

“Well, the entrance to Heaven in Houston, Texas, was just activated.”

“I suppose he just took his time,” Gabriel said brightly.

“He might’ve uzzzed it to arm himzzzzelf,” Beelzebub warned. “Don’t forget, none of you are immune to Hellfire. You’ll need me there. And Azzzziraphale, for the termzzz of the agreement you _never told him_ “

“We’re coming with,” Michael declared. “No more individual action against these traitors, Gabriel, Heaven is only successful with our combined forces.”

“Very well.” Gabriel nodded in agreement. He snapped his fingers, and the white office chair Aziraphale was tied and bound to suddenly sprung to life, rolling after the four Archangels and Lord of Hell as they went to the elevator to watch it open. They stood in a semi-circle around the bright silver solid entrance, pearlescent and nearly white with how brilliant it gleamed. The ticker at the elevator indicated it was still taking its very long ride up.[1] Finally, it slowed and dinged as it reached the landing. They awaited the demon Crowley to appear, perhaps armed with a tire iron like at Armageddon, prepared to take on Satan himself for the Earth and the Angel. The doors slid open efficiently, revealing what awaited them.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late, I stopped for Chipotle,” Rosemarie Lowell said. She held up a paper bag with a corporate logo on it, the smell of food permeating Heaven for the first time in its existence. Her other hand held a paper cup with the same logo. She stepped out of the elevator and let it close behind her.

“Where is Crowley?” Gabriel asked.

“Gabe!” The human greeted him convivially. “Long time, no see. How’s it going? Guess our conversation didn’t land, did it?”

“That’s a human,” Michael said.

“I am a human,” she agreed. “Where are my manners? I’m Rosemarie Lowell, but call myself Rome, and would prefer if you did as well. Do you mind if I eat? I sort of skipped breakfast to get over here in a timely fashion, and a growing girl needs her protein.” She pulled a foil cylinder out of the bag and unwrapped it, taking a bite, chewing halfway, and then saying through a mouth full of meat, cheese, vegetables, beans, and tortilla, “So wha’s u’ wi’ y’all?”

“Excuse me?” Gabriel asked.

“Mmph,” she finished chewing. “I’m just wondering what’s this about, and all. I mean, you kidnap my friend Aziraphale here,” she motioned to Aziraphale, who was wide-eyed and making muffled sounds through his muzzle. “And then you summon me here under some sort of assumption-” She snorted. “Sorry, inside joke.”

“Where izzz Crowley?” Beelzebub asked.

“Not here,” Rome said. “Obviously. But it’s alright, I’m probably a bit nicer.” She took another bite of her lunch and washed it down with a noisy slurp of her drink. “Beelzebub, is it?” Beelzebub’s surprised response made her lips quirk. “The fly hat sort of… gives it away. Cute hat, though. I gotta say I love the whole ensemble.” She motioned to Beelzebub’s clothes with her burrito, dripping a bit of sour cream across Heaven in the gesture. “And I know you’re the four Archangels, but you know there are so many conflicting accounts, and half of it is canon, so if you could just introduce yourselves, I would really appreciate it.”

“I am the Archangel Michael,” Michael said.

“I am the Archangel Uriel,” Uriel said.

“I am the Archangel Sandalphon,” Sandalphon said.

“Sandalphon? That’s not very canonical.” Rome snorted. “Sorry, I just, uh, expected you to be taller. And wearing flip-flops.”

“Now that we’ve all made our introductions, you will tell us what we want to know in exchange for Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “We have not been satisfied with what you have said.”

“You know, just because you don’t _like_ what I’ve had to say doesn’t mean I’m lying,” Rome said. “I’ve been honest, you’re all just quite poor at asking the right questions, but we can’t all be as clever as Crowley, can we?”

“Speaking of Crowley, where is he?” Michael asked. “Perhaps you are honest, but you are also evasive.”

“I don’t know,” the human admitted with a sort of softer expression, her confidence flickering away for a moment to something wounded. She spared a sympathetic glance at Aziraphale, who, through the haze of his shackle, was looking mournful. “Same time Aziraphale disappeared, he did too. I assumed maybe it was Hell… but now I don’t know what to think.” She looked at Beelzebub with steady consideration.

“He ran away!” Gabriel said gleefully. “I should have known! This is the problem, you see, Aziraphale, with trusting demons. He doesn’t care about you. Why would he? What do you have to offer? You’re just an angel gone soft and round with years on Earth. You can’t give him a single thing he desires. He used you to stop Armageddon for his own selfish interests, and left the moment you were in danger.”

Aziraphale’s muffled noise was one of disagreement.

“You take that back, you feathered fuckface,” Rome snapped, flaring anger unexpected. The angels were also startled, while Beelzebub smirked. Rome stilled herself with a slow breath. “Tell me what you need to know, so Aziraphale and I can leave, and I will acquiesce.”

“How are you planning on preventing the next Armageddon?” Gabriel asked.

“Well, there’s not really a prevention strategy,” Rome said. “I suppose you can say that I’m on a mission to prove humanity is worth keeping around. You claim that it’ll be the actions of your armies, Antichrists and trumpets, and whatever, that will cause the end of the world. Well, if global warming gets bad enough, the seas will boil on their own. I want to stop that, and I am uniquely able to give humanity a chance to survive, to protect Her Creation, as all of you should be doing.”

“Don’t lecture us about what we should be doing,” Gabriel snapped.

“Someone has to, and I think it’s in my disposition,” Rome replied.

“Why?” Uriel inquired pointedly.

“Y’all ain’t a single clue, huh?” Rome asked. Aziraphale was shaking his head with ferocity, wide eyes begging her that he wasn’t worth this reveal.

“I suppose we don’t,” Michael said.

“Well,” Rome smiled. “I’m pregnant.”

“Many humans are pregnant,” Sandalphon said.

“That may be true,” Rome said. “But I’ve never had sex.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Gabriel said. “Human pregnancy requires sexual intercourse.”

“Indeed, it does, Gabe,” Rome said. “Except in one rare and vaguely important circumstance, right? I think you were there for that one if I remember correctly.”

“You can’t be implying-”

“That God knocked me up? I won’t imply it, I’ll say it outright. I’m ten weeks along with the second coming of Christ. I’m carrying the Savior, the Child of God and Man, the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, the Word of Life, the Light of The World, and the Lion of God. Don’t believe me? Maybe you should start paying attention to what’s been in front of you this whole time.” She stretched her arms out wide, the dramatic allusion dampened slightly by the fact she was burdened with takeout Chipotle.

“You’re lying,” Uriel said.

“You wish,” Rome replied.

“This cannot be,” Michael murmured.

“It is.” Rome shrugged. “Come on, if you pay attention, you’ll feel it.” She could tell by their squinting and horrific gapes that they had finally paid attention and felt it.

“She’s telling the truth,” Sandalphon gasped.

“Unfortunately,” Gabriel admitted.

“You didn’t know?” Beelzebub gaped.

“I told you, Gabriel, the Almighty’s Throne sits empty,” Rome said. “No wonder none of you have heard from her directly since before your stupid _falling out_.” She preened a bit at her pun.

Aziraphale frowned and puzzled. Rome shot him a quick look of _shut the fuck up_ before turning back to the Archangels and Prince of Hell.

“This is blasphemy,” Sandalphon declared.

“Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Rome said. “I’ve held up my end of the bargain. You ought to do the same.”

“We’ll have to verify it, of course,” Gabriel said suddenly. “There are at least six different forms that need to be filed after this encounter and four more for your announcement. We can’t allow you to leave before the paperwork is in order.” He turned to Beelzebub quite smugly, “See. There _are_ merits to paperwork.”

“Perhapzzzzz,” Beelzebub replied, rolling their eyes, but ze did not look as annoyed as they out to. Rome glanced between the two of them with a veiled expression. “What about her?”

“Well. We can’t have a human running amok in Heaven while we verify the paperwork, go through a couple of subcommittees. If it so happens that she gives birth at that time,” Gabriel shrugged. “Humans have always been fickle.”

“Oh, you bastards,” Rome said before she was suddenly having her feet swept out from under her by a particularly aggressive office chair. Michael and Uriel descended on her, and soon her wrists were bound to the armrests and her feet on either end of one of the prongs of the wheelbase. She and Aziraphale were wheeled back to wherever Aziraphale had been kept, a room that was just bright white floors, pillars, and walls. The glass panes showed many skylines blending into each other. “Can you at least let me keep my Chipotle?” She asked. Sandalphon was holding her bag and drink.

“Confiscated,” he said.

“Your dental work is crap,” Rome replied.

The angels looked quite pleased with themselves as they left.

“I should return back to Hell,” Beelzebub said.

“I understand. Your assistance was appreciated,” Gabriel said.

“Izzz thizzz the end of the moduzzz vivendi?” Beelzebub asked.

“I see no further need for it,” Gabriel admitted. “You were very professional, I was expecting this alliance to be far worse.”

“The feeling is mutzzzual,” Beelzebub agreed. “You have a lot of paperwork to look forward to, it zzzeemzzzzz.”

“I do,” Gabriel almost sounded pleased at the thought.

“I have reportzzzz to zzzzubmit azzz well, probably,” Beelzebub said. “I’ve been behind for a while now. All the penzzz in Hell are broken.”

“Here,” Gabriel said, giving a silver fountain pen from his jacket to the demon. “Consider it a parting gift.”

“It’zzz hideouzzzzzzz,” Beelzebub declared, nearly fond. “Farewell, Archangel Gabriel.” There was the sound of echoing footsteps and the crackling of the infernal fire. Rome strained her ears and heard Gabriel’s heavier footfall leave as well once the demon was gone.

“Huh,” Rome said. “That happened.” She looked around the room, trying to strain her eyes past the discombobulating layout of Heaven and overbearing brightness. “I’m gonna guess that something is keeping you from miracling us out of this one?” Aziraphale’s response was muffled through a piece of cloth between his teeth. “Right. I know how to get out of that. You need to use your tongue, though. It takes a bit of force, but if you can wiggle it over your bottom lip and chin and work your jaw, you can-” Rome stopped as she heard the muffled noises of Aziraphale’s mouth against the fabric.

“Oh, that did work,” he said finally. “Rome, why are you here?”

“Like I was going to leave you in this… Gloryhole?”

“Heaven technically isn’t a hole.”

“But you have to admit it’s apt,” Rome said.

“What happened to Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. She ached at the fear in his voice.

“We were ambushed, they were prepared,” Rome said. “They had aerosol canisters with holy water-” Aziraphale gave a strangled gasp of horror. “He survived. He’s alive. It wasn’t pretty, though. We got trapped, he got me to safety with his last bit of strength and then… I was alone. You were gone, he was gone. I followed the instructions left by Heaven and wound up here. Crowley’s alive, I know that much, but I have no idea where he is.”

“How do you know he’s alive?”

“I can hear praying,” Rome said. “When… when I sleep or when I listen, that’s why I’m so… people sometimes pray under great distress and pain, and I hear it, see it, feel it. I can block it out or tune into it a little bit when I’m awake. That’s why I took so long. I thought maybe I could try to sleep and find you guys that way… but I can’t control it. Not well. I gave up, stopped for lunch, and hoped I could bullshit us out of here. Now I have no exit strategy and no lunch. Do you have any plans?”

“I… don’t,” Aziraphale admitted with a low defeat. “We’ll probably be here for years, with all the forms that Gabriel is suggesting that they have to fill out.”

“I’ll probably die of thirst before then,” Rome admitted. “Heaven’s not built for human existence, is it?”

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale agreed. He sighed, “This is all my fault.”

“What do you mean? You can’t blame yourself for getting kidnapped by the Archassholes.”

“Yes, but… but if Crowley and I hadn’t made such a mess of things, there never would have been a chance for us to end up in this situation.”

“You don’t know that,” Rome said. “There’s no way you could know that.”

“Perhaps, but-” Aziraphale let out a sort of choking noise. “What if I never see him again? What if… what if we… the last time we… it’s a fight? This happened when the world was ending, you know. He wanted to run away together to Alpha Centauri, but I couldn’t – I wanted to save everyone. I still thought there was good in Heaven. And… And now… I told myself the last words he would ever hear from me would be a reminder of how much he meant to me. Couldn’t even do that, could I? I just… I – I go to slow. I know I do. I’m set in my ways. I like it when things are comfortable, and comfortable things don’t change. But… but everything changes. I shouldn’t have resisted so much. I should have… there’s so much I wanted to say, you know? And now… now I’ll never get a chance to.”

Rome wanted to say something to promise him that wasn’t the case, but she didn’t have any room for assurances right now. She looked down at her feet, feeling suddenly very small. She knew she was going to fail. She knew, she begged God to forgive her when she did, she just hoped that She would. It was said once before that Rome Lowell had adamant armor around her entire being, keeping her away from people who would care about her because she was certain closeness would end in nothing but pain. Now, she was in pain. The armor she had survived with was lying in broken pieces at her feet. All her strength shattered like a sea of sand at her feet, digging into soft flesh until it bled. She was trapped, with no way out. She hadn’t just doomed herself and all of humanity, but now her friends were separated and suffering just as they seemed to gravitate towards each other finally. They deserved a chance, Rome wanted to help them have it, and she was tied to an office chair instead.

“I hope he knows,” Aziraphale whispered, the sound broken. “A foolish sentiment, I know.”

“It’s not foolish that you love your husband,” Rome said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale’s mournful voice struggled to have a sliver of a wistful joy at her assurance. “He is my husband, isn’t he? At least we had that… even if we never… there’s so much I wish I had a chance to do.”

Rome’s heart was bleeding. It was sore and aching. She failed, she failed, and people were suffering. She failed, and the people she cared about were suffering. She was going to die in a too-bright office building that was making her feel claustrophobia in reverse. She was crying for the third time in what had become a very exhausting day, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She threw her head back to try to choke them down, and the entire chair shifted with the force of her movement. Something hard tremored in her stomach, a spark of realization. Something new and far more potent than adamant was seeping into her bones: hope.

“I wanted to… oh, they’re silly things. It would have been nice for him to fall asleep on my lap. Very often, I would read in my back room on the armchair, and he would fall asleep on the couch, I did so love to watch him sleep, and I always imagined what it would be like to have that in my possession. I could run my hands through his hair whenever I desired, soothe him if a nightmare came, I know he gets them even if he brushes it off.”

Rome shifted again, arching and twisting her body in the chair, slamming it one direction. The wheels rolled slightly, but it wasn’t enough to force for what she wanted to do. She needed to have enough torque to flip the thing. Going forward would make her fall on her face, but maybe if she shifted to one side, she could knock herself too far left or right for the chair to stay standing.

“I know we must have shared a bed the night after we were married, but he woke up before I did. I would like to do it again, except he doesn’t leave. We could have greeted the morning together, bleary eyes in the warm and pale sunlight of a new day, knowing the other is safe because we’re in a warm bed together, wrapped up in the other.”

With a sudden jolt one way, her entire body’s force leaning, the chair flipped, and Rome landed hard on her left side. Her jaw clacked painfully as her head bounced off of the harsh white tile of heaven. She let out a quiet whimper, and as her mental faculties returned, she got to work on sorting out where her body parts were.

“We could… we could have had a home together. Not my bookshop in Soho, or his Mayfair flat, somewhere else, for the two of us. With a huge library, probably full of miracles to fit all my books, and a garden for Crowley. He yells as his plants, you know? But my, aren’t they the loveliest things. He’s a brilliant horticulturalist, I think he misses the garden. I do too, sometimes. It was paradise, but then I see what humanity made after leaving it and… in sum, it can’t compare, can it?”

Rome stretched her feet and maneuvered her hips, taking advantage of the new position and different demands of gravity. She shimmied the ropes connecting her ankles to the wheelbase further down the curved chrome prong. She moved the cables past the wheel mount, and then, with a bit of effort, got them over the front wheel. Her ankles were free. She kicked off the ropes. Then she brought her knees to her chest and started trying to flip herself over the back of the chair while splayed out horizontal, arms twinging from their uncomfortable angle.

“The cottage would be somewhere south of London, I think. I did enjoy that beach in Los Angeles, so maybe at the seaside. The water will be colder in England, but, well, not too much of a problem for our stock, maybe some concern for Crowley’s circulation, but the sun should balance it out. Oh, we could’ve gone on walks in the evening, after dinner. Would I cook dinner, or would Crowley? I prefer food more, but he’s always been so wonderfully creative. I don’t know if that would be a good or a bad thing in terms of the culinary arts. It is an art form, isn’t it?”

Rome finally, thankfully, managed to slip her arms from where they were tied on the armrests further toward the back. Once she had a different position, she was able to flip around the end of the chair, arms still fastened to the rests, but now she was behind the chair. She pushed off the ground with her legs and righted herself, trying to tug her arms out the back end of the armrests. The ropes dug into her skin.

“You could come, of course. We’d have a guest bedroom in case you, or Adam, or Anathema and Newton ever wanted to take advantage of the good countryside air, and… and I’m planning a future I’ll never have.”

 _It’s just skin, Rome. She_ reminded herself as the hot scrape of rope and flesh was making her want to hold back. She continued to pull, using her legs to keep the chair in place while her body moved backward. The ropes gave way, taking a layer of flesh with it. White and pink scrapes ran up and down her forearms, rubbed raw, droplets of blood cropping up at the worst spots of stripped skin. She fingered her wrists delicately, smearing away the red just for it to blossom back and drip on the immaculate floors. Out of the awestruck stupor of her own escape, despite the small injuries, she made her way to Aziraphale. He gaped at her in surprise as she appeared before him, using the keys of the Bentley to saw through the ropes with considerable effort.

“You and your husband are going to have an idyllic seaside cottage in Southern England if it’s the last thing I do. And you’re going to go on walks and cook dinner and stroke his hair and sleep with him,” she said. “Because if I believe in anything, I believe in love.” The final piece of rope fell away. “Now, how do we get out of here?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “There could be ten million angels between us and an exit. And this creation by Beelzebub and Gabriel has weakened me considerably.”

“Have you tried taking it off?” Rome asked. His opposite hand went for it and jolted back with a flash of sparks. “Let me try.” She reached out carefully for the cuff on his wrist, sunk her fingers into the shifting metal, and took it off. It went inert in her hand, feeling like nothing. She slipped it on her wrist and felt nothing.

“Why are you keeping it?”

“It can weaken angels and demons, could come in handy,” Rome said. “Hey, didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale said mournfully.

“Not my point – flaming swords, guardian of Eastern gate of Eden, forgive me if I’m wrong but that means you’re a cherub-”

Aziraphale shushed her suddenly, “Not anymore.”

“Were you demoted?”

“No, er, well, yes, it’s not as simple as - but not, er, by any authority. You see, after the – they said the Cherubim would now be tasked with guarding Her Throne. And, well, seemed rather dull. I _liked_ protecting the humans, well, the tree, but I liked the humans! So, they needed a principality to apply for a position on Earth, supervision, and a bit of guidance… I might’ve lied on my application and, and replaced my official records with forgeries so I could, uh, get the job I wanted.”

Rome scoffed in gleeful surprise, “You’re the cutest fucking badass.”

“Oh, oh, how kind of you to say,” Aziraphale preened a little. “But what is your point?”

“Well, shouldn’t you be a powerhouse in these parts since you’re technically third sphere and all? Or do paperwork forgeries alter your ability?”

“No. Metaphysically, I am and always will be a cherub,” Aziraphale said. “But miracles aren’t a matter of power. They’re one of, well, it’s hard to explain. You need to visualize the outcomes of the miracle you wish to perform and have full belief in its success. That’s why Crowley’s been so powerful. He’s brilliantly imaginative.”

“So, can you just imagine the elevator in this room?” Rome asked.

“Well… unfortunately, it’s not so simple in Heaven. There are entire angelic departments responsible for… maintaining the interior, as it were. Things are not so easy to manipulate here when there are angels dedicated to keeping them the way they are.”

“And you can’t break the glass and fly out?”

“Perhaps I could survive hurtling through twelve dimensions back to Earth, but I doubt you would.”

“Right, okay,” Rome sighed. She doubled back, “All you have to do is imagine things? Really?”

“Really,” Aziraphale said. “But you have to understand, our sort isn’t like humans. We weren’t built to be creators, inventors, and storytellers. If all humans were so capable of manipulating the world around them with their faith and mastery of universal consequence… it would be… well, you can see how profound humans can change things with their faith alone.”

Rome was pacing, mind whirring, thinking back to all the things that had happened over the last few months of her pregnancy. She had changed things, hadn’t she? It wasn’t very often, but there were times reality fit to alter her expectations. She didn’t know for sure that reality wouldn’t’ve been that way without her faith and hope, but… but if the truth was the sum of manipulations of others, if she was harboring the creator’s essence, perhaps-

“There is no spoon,” Rome said with sudden realization.

“A spoon?” Aziraphale asked. “Why should there be a spoon?”

“It’s – it’s a movie reference,” Rome said. “To _the Matrix:_ A-a sci-fi series heavily inspired by Descartes’ _First Meditations_ , Baudrillard’s’ _Simulacra and Simulation-_ ”

“I’ve read Descartes, a bit abstract-”

“Well, of course, it’s abstract, but the point is, all of reality can be called into doubt. If imagination and belief are what brings power then- then- then, _all_ of it can be manipulated, only restricted by the finite of-of my own consciousness. I know what we have to do.” Aziraphale rose an eyebrow in inquiry. “Leap of faith, or, speed run through Heaven of faith.”

“I hate running.”

“I have asthma, we’re both going to suck at cardio, no alternative, let’s book it,” Rome said. She grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, and they took off through the pearly doors and into an under-construction corridor. An angel in a white-and-silver work uniform and hard hat made an exclamation of surprise. Aziraphale waved his hand, and his ladder fell, blocking the path. They kept running, banging through another set of doors. Now they were in an office section full of cubicles. Angels popped up from their desks, looking horrified and confused. They paused for a second, panting in the doorway, looking for the nearest exit.

“There’s a horse-sized duck right behind us, and he’s gonna attack y’all if you don’t skedaddle!” Rome exclaimed suddenly, putting certainty behind her words. Her warning was met with blank stares.

“You couldn’t have thought of something a bit more believable?” Aziraphale asked as he pulled her in the right direction.

Suddenly, the doors they emerged from banged open and a loud, bellowing _QUACK_ filled the room. Sure enough, a massive mallard, male, broke through the walls, spraying pure white dust into the air as it descended on the cubicles. There was chaos, the angels screamed as the duck flapped his massive wings and started snapping his flat beak at the closest angel as squelching noises filled the air. Rome cackled with glee as they broke through the next set of doors, taking off through more large corridors, passing angel couriers who looked absolutely scandalized at their existence.

“How did you do that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Same way you do a miracle!” Rome exclaimed. “I got mojo!”

“Well, use it wisely!”

“You know where you’re going, right?”

“They might’ve remodeled since I was last here,” Aziraphale admitted. “I didn’t spend that much time in Heaven since Eden.”

“Fuck nuggets,” Rome swore. “This place needs better signage.”

“Well, then, by all means,” Aziraphale said.

“Right! It’s so great they just installed comprehensive signage and those useful you-are-here maps!”

Appearing before them on the wall was something that looked like a Jackson Pollock covered in foreign symbols. Aziraphale pondered it for a moment, tracing his finger through some strange path, and then nodding and continuing their dash through the halls. They made their way to a stairwell, flying up the rickety stairway.

“We didn’t take the stairs to get from the elevator to the room we were locked up in,” Rome said.

“You can’t apply Euclidean geometry to Heaven,” Aziraphale said. “And we might’ve gotten turned around until you set the maps up, the point is, this is the fastest way!”

“No, _this_ is the fastest way because now it’s a _slide_!” Rome exclaimed. The metal stairs turned into smooth, beveled metal beneath their feet. They hit the ground hard and started shooting down the winding downward stairwell. Rome was beginning to understand that how it seemed, they were going down, they were actually going somewhere else and down was the best translation in this dimensional plane. The slide bottomed out to a pair of double doors but didn’t have any speed bumps to slow their descent. They slipped along the spotless and slick tile, past the double doors, and into another sort of convivial hall where clusters of angels were meeting. At the far end of the room were the doors of the elevator. They slowed to a stop in the middle of the room, earning a lot of stairs.

“You should probably call maintenance about that,” Aziraphale said, clamoring to his feet. Rome did the same. “Bit of an occupational hazard.”

“You’re failing this century’s Heavenly OSHA inspection, I reckon.”[2]

“Anyway, we must be leaving now,” Aziraphale declared. With nobody stopping them, mostly because they were too baffled by this turn of events to even consider acting. Hand in hand, Aziraphale, and Rome sprinted to the elevator when.

“You’ve made quite a mess,” Gabriel appeared, flanked by Uriel, Michael and Sandalphon. “Do you have any idea the sort of paperwork-”

“You know what, Gabriel? Fuck you and fuck your paperwork!” Rome exclaimed. His jaw dropped, and his ultraviolet eyes widened considerably. “Aziraphale and I are going to rescue Crowley, and if y’all talk shit, you _will_ get hit.”

“Yes, now, if you don’t mind, I would like to go and find my husband,” Aziraphale added.

“Husband?” Uriel asked.

Aziraphale realized with a start what he had said, but pressed on, some sort of feral and rebellious glee taking shape, “Terribly sorry, you weren’t invited to the wedding. We didn’t want you there, because we don’t like you.”

“Wedding?” Michael asked.

Four sets of angelic eyes narrowed in on Aziraphale’s left hand, where a golden band with a black stripe was set on the third finger. It hadn’t been there a moment before, but since Aziraphale expected it to be there, it suddenly was.

“Angels can’t get married,” Sandalphon said.

“An angel did get married, to a demon, so you’re wrong,” Rome said. They all gasped.

“I don’t understand,” Gabriel said.

“Because y’all’re shitty angels,” Rome replied. “Love, fuckheads. You wrote the rules, read them. Now let us go, or I will talk Heaven into blasting heavy metal instead of celestial harmonies.”

“No,” Gabriel said.

“I can’t believe Heaven just installed the most _annoying_ comprehensive, omnipresent sound system that only plays music in the human heavy metal genre,” Rome said.

A guitar riff started blaring. The angels looked around in horror. The drums accompanied them, the heavy bass started shaking the ground. They started running around, trying to smother where the sound was coming from, but it was coming from everywhere.[3] The elevator was free. They pressed the button to call it. They waited nervously, worried at any moment the Archangels would realize that there was no use in stopping this miracle of Rome’s and that their best bet was keeping her around to undo it.

The elevator doors finally slid open, Aziraphale and Rome nearly leaped inside, slamming at the control panel to close the doors and send them back to the ground level. Four furious Archangels turned their eyes on the closing doors just in time to see them shut, human and angel safe from whatever Heavenly wrath. The manipulations on Heaven didn’t fade with the human’s absence.

“We need to speak to the Almighty about this,” Michael declared.

“We’ll send a report to the Metatron,” Gabriel said.

“No, you were right to intervene, our paperwork cannot prepare us for this!” Michael said. “That human woman dared to declare our Creator was not on her rightful throne! We have to prove her wrong.”

“What if we prove her, right?” Uriel asked in a weak horror. A duck burst out of the former stairwell, now a massive slide, and started mauling the nearest angel.

“I’ll kill it,” Michael sighed, summoning their lance. They had once defeated Lucifer himself in combat, and now they were relegated to duck wrangling.[4]

* * *

[1] To say that heaven was “above” Earth was a bit inaccurate, as it existed on a metaphysical plane capable of hosting physical entities. However, the process of traversing from Earth to Heaven happened in a direction that was, in sum, more geometrically “up” than any other direction, including the directions that existed up to the seventh-dimensional plane.

[2] On all of the Archangel’s desks appeared a report of the last century’s Heavenly OSHA inspection, citing multiple problems in the format and structure of Heaven and declaring a failure to uphold regulations. Furthermore, a filing cabinet suddenly existed with the fifty-nine reports leading up to this century, and the official regulatory statues that made them in violation with Heavenly OSHA in the first place.

[3] _Say your prayers, little one. Don’t forget, my son, To include everyone! I tuck you in, warm within, Keep your face free from sin, Until the sandman, he comes! Sleep with one eye open, Gripping your pillow tight! Exit: light. Enter: night, Take my hand, We’re off to never-never land!_

[4] Even more embarrassing, this duck managed to evade Michael miraculously and continued to cause havoc across Heaven. The duck-catch-or-kill squadron set up hurriedly in the aftermath of its presence in heaven likewise lacked success. Eventually, the heavenly horse-sized duck flew out of an open window. It winded up somewhere in a fifth-dimensional chasm where it made its pleasure attacking subatomic particles and starring in Aflac commercials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Hey, guess what? I have a discord server now! And I've created a channel just for this fic, as well as some for other fandom things. The invite code is XeQvQRr. You're all more than welcome to come and join!
> 
> What did you think of this chapter? As always, I appreciate your feedback in any form, and I love comments! Thank you so much! Until the next update.


	21. I'd Wanna Be Felled By You, Held By You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome gets a crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to provide a warning to preface this chapter for possibly triggering content, including violence and medical care. If you get triggered or squicked by action-movie violence or moderately graphic depictions of burns and injury, I'm sorry, please be careful. If you want to skip this chapter down to the endnotes, there's a summary of the chapter.

JOLENE WAS STRUGGLING to keep the demon safe. It hadn’t even been a day, and the entire Order was becoming antsy at the thought of his presence.

“He’s secure,” she insisted. It was a meeting in the main house, around the dining table. She was seated at Phineas Thornton’s right hand. The men did not trust her or respect her but were mildly terrified of her and her foreknowledge. “The sigil comes from _Malleus Maleficarum_ , and our own Master Thornton activated it.”

“I don’t understand why we need him alive,” The man across from her said. “If you are certain his mistress will come to fetch him, surely it doesn’t matter if she knows he’s alive or not.”

“You underestimate the power of these creatures,” Jolene said. “If we kill him or destroy his mortal form, she’ll be able to sense it. We need him as live bait, they will track him to this location, and that is when we do what is needed.”

“Then we should question him to know what we should expect when they come,” The man argued. “I don’t like being unprepared.”

“You think you’re capable of torturing or outwitting a demon of Hell?” Jolene asked. “Torture and suffering is the bane of their existence, none of our methods could even hold a candle to the Hellfire he’s used to. He won’t give the information freely, and extracting it is near impossible. As dissatisfying at it is, our best course of action is waiting for the Hand of God to intervene for His faithful servants.”

“I don’t know, that holy water seemed to work well,” He argued.

“It’s not worth risking it, any more of it, and he could be annihilated, and then the same issue stands,” Jolene said.

“Master Thornton, sir,” he turned to Thornton to beg for his favor as if Jolene’s well-placed arguments meant nothing. Of course, here, they only ever meant anything to the men when Thornton agreed, and as soon as he did, suddenly, it was the plan of their master, not her, and it was followed without question. Jolene was exhausted with her acts of espionage, and she couldn’t wait to see their expressions when it all went up in flames.

“Luring the woman here is our primary objective,” Thornton said. “But we do need to be prepared. Jolene, have you seen anything?”

“Just their arrival, and our victory, of course,” Jolene said. “This is what your men have trained for, as long as they act within their faith and skill, I cannot see how we would have any issues.”

“And you trust this witch?” A second man asked.

“Jolene Davis is not a witch,” Thornton said. “She is a prophet of the Lord, and we are blessed by her presence.” He turned to her, “Perhaps we can use that. You can contain the demon with your holy blessing, perhaps you can use it to extract how?”

“I will see what the Lord’s blessings can offer me,” Jolene said. “And, at the very least, keep an eye on the creature.”

“And in the meantime, we will be prepared for any satanic invasion,” Thornton said. “This is what our men have trained for, after all. Consider the meeting adjourned.”

The scraping of wooden chair legs on wooden flooring filled the room, many men standing up and shuffling out, their heavy combat boots thudding out of the plantation house and in the direction of the armaments.

“Jolene, dear,” Phineas said. “Do you need any help in the cellar?”

“No, thank you,” She smiled gracefully at him. “I can protect myself from the servants of Satan.”

“I know you believe making the creature suffer will never yield information, but perhaps it would be a due penance.”

“Surely, being a demon is penance enough? Doomed to damnation?” Jolene asked.

“Sometimes, a bit more suffering that ordained by our Lord and Savior is a good thing,” Thornton said. “Especially something as foul and despicable as that… _thing_.”

“I’ll take that consideration to mind,” Jolene replied diplomatically. She stood up carefully, hands at her skirt to keep it flat as she rose. “If you need me, you’ll know where to find me.” She walked carefully, her kitten heels clacking delicately over the floorboards as she went into the kitchen. She took the key from the lock and undid the padlock on the cellar door. She tucked the lock and key on the hook inside the cellar and carefully made her way down the stairs to the lowest level. She turned on the switch as she descended the stairs, a single exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling lit up the narrow room. It had wooden floorboards, and in the center of the room, the demon in the trap. He had been curled up as she entered, but as her footsteps got closer, the perked up and backed away like a wounded animal to the furthest edge of the trap. He was in a poor state. His face was covered in burns, his eyes were swollen shut, and dried blood smeared much of his already reddened, blistering face. His hair stuck to the sheen of sweat on his forehead, but he shivered in the cold cellar. Rome assumed something about the devil trap was burning him while the ambiance was freezing him. He also had a bruise blossoming on one side of his face.

“One of the men came down here, didn’t they?” Jolene asked quietly. Maybe during the meeting, she had been so careful to keep him under supervision. She had hoped half an hour would have been safe. “Do you know who?”

“Didn’t really introdusssse himssssself,” the demon hissed. Jolene remembered that Thornton had been late to the meeting, and the one who activated the demon trap. The conclusion was a bit simple.

“Of course,” Jolene said. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t need ribsssss, do I?” he asked, hand motioning weakly to his ribcage. He gurgled somewhat and fell on his face, groaning in pain as his wounded skin touched the ground. Jolene watched with an aching house as he righted himself, balancing in his knees and toes like a praying man, hugging his body tightly out of pain. Dark, viscous blood trailed down his chin.

“They’re coming, they have to be,” Jolene insisted.

“Angel was taken by Heaven. I doubt he’sssss coming back… he – they wouldn’t let him. And if Rome knowssss what’sssss good for her and the baby, ssssshe’d run.”

“Agnes said-” Jolene said.

“Sssssooner or later, a prophet is wrong,” the demon said, “I’ve been around sssssince the beginning. I’ve ssssseen it ssssso. Sssssome were only ever right in the first plassssse becaussssse it was what everyone else exssssspected. Faith’sssss a – annoying like that.”

“It hasn’t even been a day,” Jolene said.

“Maybe they think I’m dead,” the demon said. “This trap could keep Assssziraphale from ssssensssing me.”

“I can’t free you, I can’t enter the trap without Thornton, he’s the one who did the rituals,” Jolene said.

“Typical.”

“Aziraphale, that’s the angel friend of yours, right?” Jolene asked. “Are you close?”

“Closssse assss anything. Not very many immortalssss on Earth to befriend. Ssssslim pickingssss and all.”

“Well, I notice you wear a wedding ring,” Jolene said. “Is it just decorum, or…?” The demon made a sort of grimacing expression with grit teeth, and Jolene immediately dropped the subject, except… “You know, diamonds are the hardest rock according to the Mohs hardness scale.”

“Fun fact?” the demon asked, snarling.

“Well, that means they’re strong enough to strip wood,” Jolene said. “And, and demon traps are very fickle incantations. The smallest error in the Echonian sigils and the whole thing could lose power.”

“Dessssign flaw, then?”

“Maybe,” Jolene said with a shrug. “I’m going to stand guard outside.” She made her way back up the stairs, heels clacking. She retrieved the padlock and relocked the cellar. If the human woman, Earthly mother, Mother of Christ, could hurry it up a bit, they were running out of time. She watched as the orange-red light of sunset streamed through the windows of the kitchen, and considered the success of something like a prayer.

* * *

“KNOCK ME OUT,” Rome ordered Aziraphale once the pair of them were safe in the Bentley, parked in a suburb outside of Houston.

“What? Why?” Aziraphale asked.

“Last time you manipulated my dreams, I was able to control it for a while,” Rome said. “And if I can control it, if I can sleep and listen for Crowley, maybe I can figure out where he is.”

“I think our stint in Heaven proved you are capable of far more than you realized,” Aziraphale said.

“I’ve never been able to control it,” Rome said. She seemed a bit overburdened, frantic, fanatic. She was on the verge of panic. “When I’m awake I can block it out, and when I’m asleep I can focus it a little bit, but I’ve never navigated-”

“Whatever it meant,” Aziraphale said, a careful hand on her rope-scraped forearm, “Remember that there aren’t any spoons.[1]”

“Right,” Rome said. “Right, spoons.” She settled her head against the leather headrest and closed her eyes, adjusting somewhat. She took deep breaths, steadying herself. She focused on listening. She hadn’t been good at it before, but she didn’t believe she could be. She thought she was doomed to fail, to be out of the breadth of what was needed. It was that belief, or lack thereof, in her own abilities that had been weakening her this entire time. Her poor esteem of the self and her accomplishments, the lack of faith in her own skills, and the unshakable existential dread had accumulated into her being a poor representative of her own abilities. The deepest reaches of whatever power she held only coming to the surface through times of high emotional stress. Now, she believed. It was harder in Earth than in Heaven, Heaven was swimming with faith, and existed with so little, so much blank space, that her manipulations were much like black acrylic over pastel watercolor. Now, she was on Earth, full of thick, earthy oil tones, hanging heavily off the canvas with heavy-scented mounds and divots. Now she was trying to navigate a paintbrush through a mural of a masterpiece. It was overwhelming and overbearing. The exertion of trying to hear everything in case Crowley was in the mix was starting to get to her. A migraine was coming on, like jackhammers in her frontal lobe. Her ears were ringing, with prayers and their own exertion. A wave of nausea rolled through her, and she lost concentration. She sighed, rubbing her face. She panted a few times and considered a different tactic.

She closed her eyes and thought wholly of Crowley. Her friend of about a month. A demon who hadn’t rebelled from Heaven so much as decided not to fight for it. She thought about him and Aziraphale, as the thought seemed natural whenever one was brought into the mind. She thought, and she imagined wherever he was. She let her mind supply information rather than force it. It was warm and cramped, the floor was uncomfortably warm, the grooves in the wood kept him stuck in place, he was throbbing all over with pain. He was scraping his fist against the ground like someone driven. She tried to take a step back to expand her image. There was a cellar in a kitchen, a woman in a circle skirt standing guard. There was a large plantation house in the middle of the forests. They were… they weren’t that far away. It wasn’t an address in her head, but when she opened her eyes, there was a waypoint. Something was suddenly tugging her chest, a thumping that seemed to run through the fabric of the Earth, interwoven and entangled with the angel sitting right beside her. It was starlight in space dust, sunshine on a bed of crystal, the edge of the burning event horizon beside the endless void, where light and dark existed at once. It was warm like a good cup of coffee and cold like the cool breeze of an autumn day, it filled a spot in her chest with something vibrant and vital. Conviction restored, she turned the car on and slammed on the accelerator. The Bentley revved and took off with a smooth jolt, the world speeding around them as the speedometer jumped and wobbled around the highest setting. The force of the momentum rippled through the cabin, but Rome held steady, maneuvering through the highway, jumping past cars with inhuman reaction time.

“You’re worse than Crowley,” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Rome said. She turned on her playlist, phone hooked up to the car. Loud percussive music boomed.[2] As the music boomed, Rome drove, singing along under her breath. The drive that should have taken at least two hours took forty-five minutes. When Rome felt she was close, the thumping louder, the burning brighter, she slowed the car to a stop.

“He’s here,” Rome said. The last sunlight of the night casting a red-purple glow.

“I can’t sense him.”

“He’s in a trap,” Rome said. “There were symbols in a circle. It’s probably containing all his demonic energy.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said darkly. “So, how can you track him?”

“There’s like a… like a string connecting the two of you,” Rome said. “I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s not occult or ethereal. It’s like quantum entanglement or something. Or that Jane Eyre quote.[3]”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said gently.

“There’s armed guards, it’s like a military base or something,” Rome said.

“I can take care of them,” Aziraphale said, reluctant and threatening all at once.

“I can’t ask you to smite them,” Rome said. “In fact, I’m asking you _not_ to. They’re just – they’re just stupid religious fanatics. They’re – they’re brainwashed by this place. It’s not worth their lives.”

“Crowley is,” Aziraphale insisted.

Rome sighed, “Let’s try something else, first.”

“You aren’t coming too?” Aziraphale asked. “You’re pregnant.”

“I was pregnant in Heaven.”

“Yes, but these humans have guns.”

“And angels don’t use lethal weapons?” Rome inquired pointedly. Aziraphale sighed in deference. “Look, they kept Crowley alive for a reason. Probably as bait. They’ve seen me, they haven’t seen you.”

“You can’t possibly suggest going in alone. I won’t allow it.”

“Fine, but we’re surrendering. We promise to do whatever they want as long as Crowley is alive and ask for confirmation,” Rome said. “And if they decide to shoot us anyway or refuse to give us him, then you can smite them.”

“And how do we get out?”

“Once we have Crowley, I’ll try to do a repeat performance of Heaven,” Rome said, “We both can have some sway since this place is without all those Heavenly rules being enforced.”

“You’ve done quite a lot today.”

“You said power is only finite to the extent of one’s belief,” Rome said. “You’re saying I’ll exhaust myself on faith?”

“You’re a pregnant human, forgive me for my concern,” Aziraphale said.

“Forgiven.” Rome sighed. “Do you have any better ideas, sugar?”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“So, can we agree on this?”

“It seems there’s no alternative.”

“Good.”

* * *

PHINEAS THORNTON’S ECSTASY had never reached the level that it did the moment the Mistress of Satan was at his feet.[4] As Jolene had predicted, the breaker of seals had come for her demon servant. She had surrendered at their gates, flanked with a second agent of evil, this one looking like a frumpy professor of sorts, but Phineas Thornton knew that looks could be deceiving when it came to the armies of Satan. They were pushed to their knees at his feet, a circle of armed men keeping their guns trained on them.

“Hello, my name is Rosemarie Lowell, call me Rome, pleased to make your acquaintance,” The woman said. “This is my friend Aziraphale. What should I call you?”

“My name is Phineas Thornton, I lead the Order de Molay.”

“That domestic terrorism organization the FBI has been investigating for months?” Rome asked.[5]

Thornton scoffed, “The FBI has not been investigating – we are not terrorists! We are a sacred organization dedicated to upholding the Bible’s sacred proclamations, to be the army of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as the prophecies of Revelations come to fruition.”

“John the Revelator was fond of _fun_ gus,” Rome said. “The Bible was canonized by councils of usually affluent, high-society men or ones chosen by that sort, it wasn’t penned by the Almighty Herself, take it with a grain of salt, buddy.”

“How dare you-”

“Anyway, Order de Molay, yeah, I heard the FBI’s big on that one, they’re worried about domestic terrorism that’s racially or religiously motivated. Been putting in a lot of manpower - NSA too, they’ve been monitoring all digital communications for your loyal members for ages. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a government mole or two in your ranks. Your attack in Austin sped up the need to act. After a delay on the federal warrant due to some unfortunate plumbing mishaps, they’re going to be sending SWAT and Navy SEALS and all the fun stuff in between, especially now that you’ve kidnapped several people.”

“These are lies-”

“What is the truth, but a matter of perspective?” Rome asked. “Few things are ever absolute. Let us go with our friend Crowley, and this won’t end in a firefight.”

“I am a man of faith, I am a servant of God, I know better than to believe your lies!”

Aziraphale sighed, “You know, I’ve always considered taking the name in vain to be less of an offense of interjection, and more along the lines of bastardizing Her message for your own self-interest.”

“You should probably listen to him, Phineas,” Rome said. “He’s a bonafide angel of the Lord. He’s been helping mankind stay in Her Grace since there was mankind. He _met_ John the Revelator.”

“Bit dramatic, for my taste,” Aziraphale sniffed. “And you are right, he had an unfortunate fondness of hallucinogenic mushrooms.”

“Ooh, really? Always thought that was a rumor. Anyway, Phineas, if you don’t believe us, pop one of those holy water canisters here and now. If we’re not demonic creatures, we’ll be fine, won’t we?”

“Jolene,” Phineas said. The woman standing by the door, in a circle skirt and kitten heels, took a step forward. “Fetch the holy water canisters.”

“Yes, sir,” The woman said with a nod of her head. She left quietly to a different part of the house.

“Don’t expect this show of yours will earn my trust,” Phineas Thornton said. “Even if you are not demons like your friend in the cellar, you could still be agents of Satan.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows and making an expression which Rome silently dubbed ‘the sassiest bitchface known to man.’

“Aren’t you _clever_ ,” Rome drawled with a copious serving of sarcasm.

The quiet, until the Jolene woman returned with a metal canister, was only punctuated by heavy breathing and shifting body armor. When she arrived, the heavy footsteps of her combat boots were a bit of an ominous reminder of what was to come. Jolene pressed down on the release mechanism and dropped it to the floor between Aziraphale and Rome. Thick, scentless steam filled the air, drifting around slowly like the thick vapors of a fog machine.[6] Suddenly, there was a sound of something hitting flesh. Phineas Thornton cried out and doubled over, toppling onto his face between Rome and Aziraphale. They both moved away from him. There were more hitting sounds, a crack of metal against bone, a guard dropped through the haze of the smoke. The others started firing wildly, Rome and Aziraphale crawled out of the circle, miraculously not a single stray bullet hit them until they were out of the cloud of smoke, but many of the men hit the ground. Jolene was also on the floor, uninjured, crawling toward them.

“Oh, good,” she said. “Come on,” She grabbed for Rome, Rome resisted. “I’m trying to help you. My name is Jolene Davis. I – I’m the one who sent you Agnes Nutter’s prophecies. You’re the angel with the bookshop in London, right?” She asked Aziraphale. Aziraphale nodded. “I’m here for this, come on.” Rome let herself be dragged to her feet by the Amazonian woman, Aziraphale stood up of his own accord. The three of them hurried from the sitting room where there had been a firefight to the dining room. It was there that two guards came into sight.

Jolene let go of Rome’s hand and surged upon the first guard. With trained swiftness, she knocked the gun’s muzzle away from the three of them with one hand and slammed the heel of her boot into the man’s knee to the point it buckled. She grabbed the butt of his gun with her other hand and flipped the entire assault rifle out of his grasp. She kicked him in the stomach and trained the weapon on the second man, shooting at his feet, he stumbled backward and into the dining table. She dropped the gun and surged on him, her shin at his knee’s edge had it crackling sickeningly, and he promptly collapsed forward. She grabbed his head and slammed it down twice against the nearest hard surface. His nose broke, and he slumped onto his face. She turned back to Rome and Aziraphale, both of them gaping at her. Aziraphale’s surprise was just a genuine touch of gaping, he hadn’t seen humans so adept and swift combat like that in a while, and Jolene’s appearance as a housewife was undoubtedly deceiving. Rome’s gaping was of an entirely different sort. Her mouth was torn between complete and utter surprise and a pleasant shock. She had a flush painting her face and breathing that was a bit higher than usual.

“Come on!” Jolene exclaimed. “Before there’s more!” The two snapped back to action, following her to the kitchen, and then to the padlocked cellar doors. Jolene scrabbled for the key on the hook, and with a few fumbles, she managed to unlock the padlock and wrench open the door. Falling forward, as he must have been on the landing, was Crowley.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, rushing forward and catching the demon around the waist as he fell. Crowley hissed something that might’ve been Aziraphale’s name if it was at all coherent. He also groaned and buckled in pain. “Crowley, dear, what happened-”

“We were attacked, I said,” Rome said. “He doesn’t look like he can walk.”

“No,” Jolene shook her head. “I’m surprised he made it up the stairs.”

“How did he get out of the demon trap?” Rome asked.

“I told him how to,” Jolene said. “Come on, we need to get out of here.”

Aziraphale adjusted his grip on Crowley, so the demon was folded up in his arms, not unlike a bride at a wedding, but this was a far less happy circumstance. He seemed to be able to lift and carry the mound of long limbs as if Crowley weighed as much as a featherdown pillow. Jolene grabbed Rome’s hand yet again, which earned a surprised squeak. The four of them made their way to the exit.

“Where’s your car?”

“We parked about a mile and a bit down the road,” Rome said.

“Okay,” Jolene said. “I have a vehicle, we’ll use that to get there.” The flung the doors open and were met with about thirty men, lined up in formation, guns trained on them. “Shit.”

“You _all_ forgot to put ammo cartridges in your guns? How dumb are you?” Rome called to the men. Their guns clicked uselessly. Panicked, they started looking to see their empty rifles. “That’ll give us a minute, keep going!” Rome yelled. Jolene pulled her one direction. They flew down the stairs of the porch and toward the motor pool. More guards started appearing, guns raised. They opened fire. “You’re like stormtroopers!” Rome screamed. “You couldn’t hit a target even if it was three inches from your muzzle! You can’t aim for shit!” They continued to fire, but every bullet seemed to strike anything but what they were shooting at. Rome, Jolene, and Aziraphale kept running, Jolene finally pulling them to cover behind an RV. She wrenched the door open and climbed inside.

“An RV? Wouldn’t a jeep be faster?” Rome asked.

“Well, I live here, I’m not leaving it!” Jolene exclaimed. Rome sighed and boarded it as well; she and Aziraphale maneuvered Crowley inside. “Put him in the bed!” Jolene called. They carried him, Rome at his head and Aziraphale at his feet, to Jolene’s bedroom. There, a king-sized bed took up most of the small back room, separated from the rest of the RV by a curtained partition. They set Crowley down atop the covers. He hissed drearily.

“You stay here, keep him steady,” Rome said. She sprinted through the RV and sat down with Jolene at the front of the camper, strapping into the shotgun seat and gripping the armrests for dear life. “Go!” she urged. Jolene floored it, and the RV took off through the base.

“Holy shit, I thought you were kidding about the FBI!” Jolene exclaimed as she swerved away from the main road, seeing about ten government vehicles coming toward the camp.

“I guess my words carried more weight than I thought,” Rome said. “Go left, there’s a backroad.” Jolene didn’t remember there ever being a backroad, but sure enough, she swerved left, broke through the gate, and took off down a bumpy dirt path that took them far away from the Order de Molay. After about fifteen minutes of rough driving through the woods, Jolene stopped and sighed. “Will they follow us?”

“No,” Rome said. “They won’t find us either, we’re in the wind without a trace.” She unbuckled and went to the back room. Crowley was splayed out, and Aziraphale was sitting wedged between the bed and the wall, holding his hand. “How is he?”

“Injured,” Aziraphale said, lip pouting profusely at the sight of Crowley. “But he’s alive. And injuries – they – they can heal, right? The holy water – he shouldn’t’ve been able to survive it. I don’t know-how – but if he survived, he has to be able to heal.”

“Of course, they’ll heal,” Rome said with absolute certainty. “It’ll just take a little time, probably.”

“Couldn’t you… speed it up?” Aziraphale asked.

“I-” Rome tried to think that Crowley would heal quickly, but the sounds he had made when he was injured, the state he was in, even she couldn’t make herself believe. She tried, she pushed, she forced a little good faith into her head, and then she groaned and swayed on the spot. Strong hands steadied her, and she blinked drearily at Jolene. “I’m not…”

“You’ve done a lot.” Aziraphale sighed. “So much, too much, probably. Between this and Heaven earlier today?”

“You guys were in Heaven?” Jolene asked.

“Aziraphale was kidnapped, I had to set a giant duck on some Archangels to get him out,” Rome said.

“For a human who realized she could manipulate reality earlier today with some epiphany about spoons, you’ve performed admirably,” Aziraphale said. “But what, we all need, I should think, is a little rest.”

“I can set up two more beds,” Jolene said.

“How the hell can this place fit two more beds?” Rome gaped.

“The wonders of modern camping,” Jolene said with a soft smile.[7] She went over to the driver’s and passenger’s seats at the front of the cabin. She pulled on some levers and the seats folded down into the floor. Then, she reached overhead and brought down a queen-sized bed that hung above the driver’s seats. She adjusted drapes around the front windows, and suddenly there was a quite comfortable looking cot. “And the couch folds out to,” she said smugly at Rome’s expression. “I have a bit of food, too. Nothing but the staples, but if you want some cheese, crackers, fruit. You know, something to nibble on.”

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Rome asked. “Crowley’s a demon, but his human physical form works about the same, I’ve noticed.”

“I do, anything you need, I will provide, I want to help,” Jolene said. Rome kept her reaction controlled.[8] Jolene continued, “Really, it’s the least I can do. I never wanted to work for those assholes, but Agnes implied not all of you would make it out alive if I didn’t intervene, so I had to. At least, you’ve taken out one of the hosts.”

“Sorry?” Rome asked.

“Agnes talked about three armies going after the Mother of Christ. Human, Hell, and Heaven. The Human Host wasn’t all of humanity, rather one very, er, _dedicated_ sect of humanity. I traced that to the Order de Molay. Now that you’ve taken them out, the only things stopping you from bringing the Savior into the world are, well, Heaven and Hell.”

“Not as simple an enemy as a hundred racists with guns,” Rome quipped.

“No,” Jolene agreed with a sigh. “I’m here to help if you’ll have me.” She gave Rome a weak sort of smile, and Rome returned it with an equally kind but uncertain expression. Rome couldn’t help but look at this woman, she looked as if she was carved out of mahogany like Pygmalion had constructed her in the image of Aphrodite in something dark and earthy instead of cold and white. She had never seen someone who looked so… so… it was indescribable actually. It was a beauty to Rome in the way that the Grand Canyon was big.

“I’d love to have you,” Rome said, her voice a bit too soft and a bit too distant.

“Excuse me?” Jolene asked, blinking considerably.

“Uh – I mean – your help – never too much… help,” Rome stuttered over herself. “First aid kit?”

“Under the sink,” Jolene pointed to the sink in her kitchen. Rome nodded and collapsed to her knees, digging beneath the cupboards to pull out the large red case. “I like to be prepared.”

“That’s wonderful,” Rome said, clutching the first aid kit to her chest, wondering what other things Jolene liked to prepare for. She felt her face heating, for no good reason but casual conversation. Rome cursed herself silently for being so starved for affection and validation. “Can I – to them?” she pointed behind Jolene’s shoulder to where Aziraphale was still worrying over Crowley.

“Right, right, right,” Jolene nodded. Rome stepped forward, and Jolene stepped back. But the issue was that she still obstructed Rome’s route. Both of them realized this, and as they tried to step to the side, they happened to step to the same side. Awkwardly sharing smiles and forced giggles, they both moved to the other. They repeated this foolish maneuver once more before Jolene, feeling the tension of the scene getting to her, grabbed Rome by the shoulders and spun them to switch positions. The issue with this was that the hallway-kitchen was quite narrow, and the movement practically pushed the pair of them together, feet brushing, before letting them part. As Jolene moved Rome, she made eye contact with the smaller woman and was stunned for a moment by her _eyes_. She had never seen monochrome eyes that were so complex. Like thunderclouds with streaks of silver and slate, practically swirling with the way the light caught them. She realized, also, that the eyes weren’t getting further away, because even though she was no longer in Rome’s way, she was holding her shoulders as close as the first aid kit between them allowed. She dropped her hands like she had been burned and clasped them in front of her. “Go ahead.”

“Right,” Rome said, spinning around and walking to Aziraphale and Crowley. Jolene turned around as well to assemble snacks and pull the couch out.

Rome got to work, setting the first aid kit on the nearest nightstand to Crowley and cracking it open. She found the burn gel, antiseptic, gauze, and bandages. She went to the small bathroom, washed her hands, and then came back to get to work on Crowley.

“Can you-” Aziraphale motioned to the mess of everything laid out. He looked uncertain and worried, he looked like he couldn’t bear to do anything but hold Crowley’s hand.

“I’m a philosopher, not a doctor,” Rome reminded him. “But, I know first aid.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed with a bit of relief. He held Crowley’s hand a bit tighter, stroking his fingers over Crowley’s tendons in what he hoped was soothing. He was surprised and a bit pleased to see Crowley’s ring on his hand. Rome got to work on cleaning the blood from Crowley’s face. He moved a bit, hissing and jolting from the pain of antiseptic around his burned face. “There, there, my dear, it’s alright,” Aziraphale whispered. “We’re just cleaning you up, Crowley, darling.” Once the brown-stained gauze was no longer needed, the grime, dust, blood, and sweat cleared from Crowley’s burned face, Rome inspected it. It was still an angry and inflamed shade of red, blistered somewhat, and stiff.

“Unfortunately, religious studies doesn’t quite prepare you for demonic medicine, curriculum oversight,” Rome said. “Any ideas, Aziraphale?”

“I was a soldier and guardian, never a healer,” Aziraphale shook his head. “I can miracle away human injuries, but something caused by holy water, I may only make matters worse.”

“Well I doubt it was holy water that kicked him in the ribs,” Rome said. She set her hand gently on Crowley’s side and pressed. He contracted and hissed in pain. She pulled back immediately. “They’re not floating around or anything, but they are fractured.”

Aziraphale took a steadying breath and passed his hand over Crowley’s body. Whatever mottled bruises and cracked ribs were beneath his jacket and shirt were suddenly gone, healed miraculously. Crowley sighed, his soft hissing sounded relieved more than anything. Rome was mixing a topical antibiotic with the aloe lotion. “I’ll put on this stuff, dry gauze and loose bandages,” she murmured. “That’s about all I can do, then he just needs to rest. Can you hold him steady?”

“Give me a moment,” Aziraphale said. He took a step back and started disrobing carefully. He shed his cream-colored coat and folded it neatly, setting it on the bedside table. He did the same to his beige velvet waistcoat. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his pale powder blue shirt and folded his sleeves up to his elbows, making sure the folds were clean and crisp. Then he tugged his tartan tie loose, unlaced his oxfords, and toed them off. Shoes and tie joined his neatly folded clothes. He started setting the pillows up by the headboard. “I thought, perhaps, if I sat down and Crowley was reclined against me-”

“That’s a good idea,” Rome agreed. She helped adjust Crowley with careful easing. He was still barely aware of his surroundings, eyes forced shut by his injuries, and entire disposition one of dreary and overwhelmed fatigue. He leaned into Aziraphale when they pulled Crowley onto him. His head rested on Aziraphale’s chest, beneath his chin. His back was aligned comfortably with the soft swell of Aziraphale’s body. Aziraphale braced Crowley’s hips between his legs, folded slightly to keep Crowley steady.

“Glgk hnghhhh,” Crowley murmured.

“There, there, honey,” Rome said carefully. Aziraphale made sure Crowley’s head was steady as Rome put ointment and dressings on his face, but Crowley didn’t put up much of a fight. He made abortive noises of pain when she spread the cream over his scale-like face, but he didn’t move with Aziraphale’s quiet words of reassurance and steady hands keeping him in place. Then she added the dressings of gauze and bandages until finally all of the blistered skin was covered.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. He dropped his hands from where they were steadying Crowley’s head and folded them neatly where his lap would have been, which happened to be Crowley’s midsection. Crowley’s head rolled back a little snuggling against Aziraphale’s chest. He made unintelligible noises and slow hisses, sounding a bit like he was about to fall asleep. Aziraphale sunk deeper into the pillows, now mostly reclined, and Crowley quieted. Crowley folded his arms between the warm creases of where Aziraphale’s legs braced him. He slithered into adjustment somewhat, legs sprawling in all directions. “I think I’ll let Crowley sleep.”

“Do you need me to grab a blanket?” Rome asked.

“Oh, don’t bother,” Aziraphale arched his back somewhat, and suddenly two wings unfurled into existence. He stretched them as much as he could in the cramped RV bedroom, and then folded them around Crowley’s body, completely enveloping the demon in a cocoon of feathers. If Crowley’s demonic counterpart was a feline of some sort and not a serpent, then he would have been purring languidly in that instance.

“Aziraphale, your wings have changed,” Rome gaped.

“What do you mean?” he said, peering down at his feathers.

“They used to be white, didn’t they?” Rome asked.

They were no longer white, but they were not black, either. Aziraphale’s feathers were a very pale cream, deceptively, so they nearly appeared off-white. They darkened down a bit in the secondaries and primaries, proper creams and beiges in a soft stripe pattern. A talented ornithologist might realize the pale colors and pattern to be reminiscent of a very pale barn owl.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale said, carefully shifting the new feathers while keeping Crowley in comfort. “Not angel’s wings, really. And I didn’t fall. They’re unique… I… do you think they suit me?”

“They do,” Rome said. “We can worry about the ‘why’ at a later date. I’ll leave you and Crowley to get some rest.” Rome smiled softly and closed up the first aid kit, backing out of the room and closing the curtained partition. She turned back to the main hall, where Jolene had snacks. Rome helped herself, and the two humans ate quietly at the table, slotted into a wall, with two benches on either side.

“Will he be alright?” Jolene asked in a whisper.

“Yes,” Rome said with hushed certainty. “It’s just we all need some rest, I think.”

“I think I have a friend in New Orleans who might… help his healing,” Jolene said.

“A doctor? Veterinarian?”

“Something a bit more… spiritual,” Jolene admitted.[9]

* * *

[1] This was everything that Aziraphale had really understood about her come-to-power. It was duly filed in his mind: Mother of Christ’s powers comes from a lack of spoons.

[2] _Uh-huh, this my shit, all the girls stomp your feet like this!_

[3] “I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave, I’m afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I’d take to bleeding inwardly.” – Charlotte Bronte, _Jane Eyre_

[4] This alone was evidence that Phineas Thornton most certainly needed to get out more. Perhaps he could have some friends who weren’t fellow agents of the apocalypse, dedicated to white supremacy and religious extremism. That might be good for his mental health and health in general.

[5] Her words had a profound effect across the world, like the beats of a butterfly’s wing causing hurricanes months later. Of course, her wingbeats were in reverse. Suddenly, files appeared in FBI offices, agents were reassigned, and memories implanted of weeks of dedicated research.

[6] Aziraphale noted with horror that this holy water should have been potent enough to do the needed damage. Maybe it was because it was in an aerosol container that Rome could say with certainty Crowley survived, but the desperate need to see Crowley alive deepened immensely.

[7] The more accurate colloquial term would be “glamping,” as this RV cost about as much as a mid-sized house in an affordable midwestern neighborhood.

[8] Rome did this for the impulsive and intrusive thoughts started suggesting the ways that this beautiful and sincere woman about her age could be helpful. She wasn’t the sort of person who always had her mind in a gutter, but something about Jolene Davis definitely made it think about bedrooms.

[9] Jolene barely understood the prophecy detailing her mother being a “Heelyr of demons” until she realized there was a demon who needed healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Jolene is trying to keep Crowley safe as Aziraphale and Rome are on their way to rescue him, but he sustains further injuries besides his burns thanks to Phineas Thornton. Rome can use Aziraphale's connection to Crowley to track the demon, and they go to the Order de Molay. While there, they meet Thornton, who's just kind of insane. He uses a holy water gas canister on them, but since neither of them is a demon, they face no injuries. Jolene uses that as a distraction to start fighting, and she takes out multiple cult members, impressing Aziraphale and Rome. They rescue Crowley, and Rome uses a few miracles to allow them to safely escape in Jolene's RV, including summoning the FBI. In the safety of the RV, they give Crowley first aid, discover that Aziraphale's wings have changed color, and Rome gets flustered by Jolene. Crowley needs better medical care, and Jolene has someone in mind.
> 
> Hi, everyone. Thank you so much for reading! What did you think of the second stage of their miraculous escapes? 
> 
> I have a discord for general fandom things, including this fic, if you're interested in joining!   
> https://discord.gg/XeQvQRr
> 
> As always, I appreciate you feedback. I'll see you in the next one.


	22. Be The Love That Discovered Sin, Freed First Man, and Will Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel investigates the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I hope all of you have been well this last month. I have to say that it's been incredibly stressful for me to do this work-from-home thing, so I appreciate your patience with my update schedule. You'd think I'd get more free time now that I'm home but it seems to be the opposite.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

CROWLEY’S FIRST THOUGHT was that he was warm, but he wasn’t in any severe pain. He remembered the scalding heat of the consecrated ground, the burning of holy water on his face, the freezing cellar that made his teeth chatter, the violence of a steel-toed boot. This was not that. He was warm, but it was a gentle, warm, soft embrace, feathers everywhere. They – they weren’t his feathers. He knew what his wings smelled like, the oil that made them dark and glossy had a distinctive musk of smoke and spice, something he considered a reminiscence of when feathers and flesh had burned. These wings wrapped around him had a unique scent of another sort, the petrichor of first rain and the vellichor of old books with worn pages and leather spines, and a bit of vanilla. He wanted to open his eyes and be awaited with a sea of white,[1], but his lids didn’t move when he asked them too. They were heavy, and the skin around them refused to twitch. For a moment, a sort of uncertain panic overtook them. He needed to be sure that this was who he thought this was, that this embrace was as welcome as it felt.

“Asssssziraphale?” he whispered to his embrace, head rising forward. He heard feathers ruffle and cool air rush inward as the wings adjusted, fluttering around him and tucking around him just under his chin. There were hands at his waist, he hadn’t felt them until now, because they gripped him just a bit tighter and pulled him to the warm and soft surface he was reclined against.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered behind him, his voice laced with question and concern. Crowley sighed and dropped his head back against Aziraphale.

“Thank… _something_ you’re alright.”

“Thank Rome, she was the one who saved us,” Aziraphale said. His fingers were smoothing against Crowley’s sides, rubbing and kneading his ribs gently, like if he stopped touching him, Crowley would vanish from his embrace. Crowley was surprised to realize that he wasn’t bothered in the least by any of this: the touching, the feathers, the embrace. Of course, this was only surprising to Crowley, and perhaps Aziraphale. To anybody else, it seemed quite evident that the demon in question would take solace in the arms of an angel.[2] “Are you alright? Crowley? How do you feel?”

“Sore,” Crowley said, his ribs did ache a bit, but not as much as they did when they were broken. They must have been healed. His face was the worst of it, throbbing with a light bit of searing. His hands throbbed from the feeling of being braced against the consecrated ground. As if Crowley had said it aloud, Aziraphale carefully moved his arms through the beneath of the bundle of wings and extracted Crowley’s. He pressed his palms against Crowley’s and interlaced their fingers, balancing their interwoven limbs atop Aziraphale’s still-braced knees. Somehow, the touch against his skin helped assuage the phantom pain from whatever holy Hell he had endured. Crowley sighed a bit and nestled further into Aziraphale’s warm front. He realized absently that Aziraphale was only wearing one button-up shirt, as opposed to that and a waistcoat and a jacket and a pocket watch and a bowtie. Crowley also was wearing a single layer. They had woken up together wearing less in the past, and yet, there was a bit of dim shock that Aziraphale would disrobe to this extent in – well – were they in public? Crowley didn’t know where he was. His eyes refused to open. Aziraphale was here: so it couldn’t be horrible. There was a smell in the air of rubber and plastic, and then artificial air freshener of pine trees atop that. The duvet under his socked feet and trouser-clad legs were soft enough, but it had some embroidered or quilted pattern Crowley couldn’t quite place. The whole place was gently rocking, a soothing movement like a car or carriage.

“Where are we?” Crowley asked.

“We’re in an, I believe it’s called a recreation vehicle,” Aziraphale said.

“You stole an RV?”

“No, a very nice young lady is letting us stay in it with her,” Aziraphale said. “Her name is Jolene. She helped us rescue you.”

“Nutter’s new girl.”

“Quite right.”

“She’s alright?”

“Rome seems to like her,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear the smug smile that often blossomed across his face when he was a bit too knowing. “What about you, Crowley, besides being sore?”

“Just… tired,” Crowley admitted. Indeed, he didn’t think he could get out of bed if he tried.

“Well, I’m here,” Aziraphale said. “And I have no plans to go anywhere.”

“How long was I asleep?” Crowley asked.

“Probably fifteen hours?” Aziraphale suggested. “The humans rested for about eight, then we retrieved the Bentley and hooked it up to this home on wheels, they went out for breakfast, and we’re heading to New Orleans now. They’ve been keeping us moving. I’ve been keeping an eye on you the whole while.”

“Even during breakfast?” Crowley asked.

“Crowley, my dear, you are _far_ more important than breakfast.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, his breath suddenly evacuated from his chest and seemed not to bother returning. He gave an abrupt inhale a moment later, Aziraphale rubbed circles into the skin of Crowley’s hands where his thumbs could reach and breathed loudly in Crowley’s ear until Crowley was breathing with him. And then he stopped, and Crowley was breathing on his own.

“There you are, dearest,” Aziraphale said gently.

“How bad is it?” Crowley asked. “My face?”

“Rome is quite certain your injuries will heal with time,” Aziraphale said. “And this Jolene has a friend in New Orleans who she’s certain will be as close to an expert on occult healing as we can get to see if we can’t speed it up.”

“We’re going to see a Voodoo Queen?” Crowley asked.

“I quite believe she’s called a _Hoodoo Doctor_ ,” Aziraphale said.

“Hoodoo?” Crowley asked drearily.

“It’s a bit fascinating, actually, the development of American occultism inspired by West African, Native American, and European cultural and spiritual influences here in the southern part of the country,” Aziraphale said.

“Who do Hoodoo?” Crowley inquired.

“Now you’re just making fun,” Aziraphale scolded, but Crowley didn’t need to see to know he was smiling. Crowley then stilled, all of a sudden, as he felt lips and breath pressing against the side of his head, a soft sound of puckered lips smacking out a soft peck.

“Angel,” Crowley said. “You – are we-”

“Oh, dear, I haven’t gone too fast, have I?” Aziraphale said, sounding worried. Crowley was horrified for a moment, letting out a string of broken, hoarse consonants, never being able to form his words around a proper sound. He was too caught up in trying to say something. He never realized that Aziraphale was laughing.

“You – you _bastard_!” Crowley tried to sound outraged, but he didn’t have the energy or the capacity for facial expression.

“Your bastard,” Aziraphale said gently, his voice so impossibly soft and sweet that Crowley had to remind himself how to draw breath for the second time that morning. Aziraphale paused for a moment, “I’m not too presumptuous, am I?”

“We did get married,” Crowley said. “Not that I remember much.”

“We could do it again,” Aziraphale said. “If you want that.”

“Nah, I don’t care much for the ceremony of the thing,” Crowley said. “Especially after all these years… Just… let’s be married, if that’s alright? I – I – I want to be your husband.”

“You are my husband, and I am yours, and so it will be for eternity,” Aziraphale promised. “Unless, of course, you’re my wife or spouse for the moment.” This, of course, was a reference to Crowley’s tendency to treat the human gender spectrum like an all-you-can-eat buffet, taking bits as he liked. Sometimes that meant clothing, physical appearance, pronouns, and general presentation.

“Of course,” Crowley echoed. He sighed and burrowed deeper into Aziraphale’s embrace. “I thought… well, for a moment there… I thought it was the end again.”

“I know how you feel,” Aziraphale said mournfully.

“There are so many things I want to say to you,” Crowley said. “So many things I didn’t say for – for millennia.” Indeed, if one perused the inner mindscape of Crowley, one would find a huge, very ornate chest, and inside would be every trinket Crowley had wanted to give Aziraphale as a token of affection before overthinking the gesture. There were etched tablets, and papyrus scrolls, and rolls of parchment, and books, and tweets, all of which were things Crowley had wished he said wished he put down in a letter, but never let Aziraphale know or see. Entire memories and fantasies painted out in oils, pastels, acrylics on watercolors on a myriad of canvases and surfaces. There were even tracks of music, some melodies long lost to time, that had made Crowley think of Aziraphale once upon a time, forever trapped in this gilded box of what Crowley coveted dearly but didn’t think he would ever have. And now, the box could be opened and dug through with determined hands and rolled-up sleeves.[3] He made an oath on something important, not that he could think of any at the moment, that he would go through that box when they had the time. He would show Aziraphale his every trinket, knickknack, bauble, book, scroll, poem, memory, and musical piece until Aziraphale was sick of it. And if Aziraphale was never sick of it, well, that was the best thing Crowley could ever imagine.

“You have the time to say them,” Aziraphale swore. “We both do. But right now, I think the most important thing for you is to rest.”

“I’ve been resting.”

“And you need more of it,” Aziraphale said quite forcefully. Crowley might’ve protested if anyone else had been playing nurse, or if he wasn’t in some way still exhausted by the whole ordeal. Crowley let out a long and beleaguered sigh as if this was a horrible undertaking to continue to relax in Aziraphale’s embrace.

“Fine, a few more hours,” he said, shifting and wriggling until he was comfortably nestled in and against every inch of the toasty, squashy angel that he could be. The only thing that could have made this better is if he could _see_ Aziraphale if he could look at the angel in his wonderfully bright eyes and see the snowy white of his feathers. But, since he could not, he tried desperately to revel in everything that he could feel. Aziraphale’s warm breath curled around Crowley’s right ear since Crowley’s head was balanced mostly against the left side of Aziraphale’s chest, right atop his heart. This allowed Crowley to know that Aziraphale was gazing directly down at him. Crowley concentrated on the languid heartbeat of Aziraphale, where he could feel it through the angel’s fingers, wrists, shoulders, stomach, and chest. He was likewise lost in the scent of Aziraphale. Still, the faintest musk of his cologne overtop all the sunshine, rain, and antique paper. Occasionally, Aziraphale would tilt his face toward what of Crowley’s head he could reach just by straining his neck, breathing deeply into his hair, and pressing soft kisses to it. Crowley drifted through that sweet and haze-heavy space between sleep and consciousness, being drawn in and out of mind-numbing bliss by the sweet sensations of Aziraphale’s attention.

If Crowley was any more coherent, he would be overthinking about these interactions. He would find some self-loathsome thoughts to send him into a spiral of doubtful questions and questionable doubts. He would find himself both aching from and for this sort of reassurance, the feeling of an eons-gaping hole somewhere in him suddenly being full of light and love once again. It would be overwhelming for him, if he was in the state to have any whelms, to suddenly have what he had craved to covet without hope for so long. But he was exhausted from his body’s slow healing, sore down to his very metaphysical core, and so none of this was a concern at the moment.

Crowley was roused with a startled tremble from his half-asleep state when there was a gentle knocking at the door. There was not, in fact, a door. The sound of knuckles on a surface came from a soft rapping on the wall by the partition. But Crowley didn’t know this, and so the sound to him was a door. Despite his jolt, he eased immediately, still bundled in Aziraphale’s assuring embrace. And then the voice that called through the air did even more to provide gentle ease, “Y’all decent?”

“Never,” Crowley declared, perhaps a bit too sleep-muddled and mumbled for his reputation, not that Rosemarie Lowell was under any illusion of the sort of creature Crowley really, indeed, was. She even snorted at his dreary attempt at humor, not out of pity, but some genuine state of amusement.

“You’re safe to enter, Rome,” Aziraphale said. The sound of metal and plastic zipping together and fabric rustling indicated Rome’s entry into the room. Crowley could not see her face, but he imagined quite correctly; it was a delicate and sort of gauging expression, polite, analytical, and concerned. Rome made it often.

“How are you, Crowley?” Rome asked.

“Never better,” he declared without a single iota of believability.

“That bad, huh?” Her frown was audible. The concern was deepening across her face in reality and his mind’s eye. “We’ve reached New Orleans, Jolene said the place in question is located in the French Quarter, but it’s too late to drop in without an invitation.,[4] so we’ll have to go in the morning. We were going to find a spot to set up camp and then see some sights, grab some food, supplies, whatever. Either of you up to stretch your legs, get some fresh air, something to nibble on?”

“Not hungry,” Crowley murmured. In fact, he was the opposite of hungry. Food seemed like the least appealing thing at the moment. “Air, maybe.”

“Do you really think you will be alright on your own with Miss Davis?” Aziraphale asked, his question pointed and laced with concern.

“You saw her,” Rome said. “She’s a goddamn amazon. And I can, you know, do my own things.”

“I was referring to your, er, unfortunate tendency to swoon in her presence,” Aziraphale said. Rome’s hushing was sudden and emphatic. Crowley felt Aziraphale repressing a chuckle at the young woman’s reaction. “If you need any advice-”

“You two are the last on my list of people I’d ask for romantic advice. Especially considering it took you six millennia and a Vegas wedding to have a proper cuddle – not that there is anything _worth_ being romantic advice-y about,” she said stiffly. Aziraphale gave Rome a particular sort of angelic frown of disappointment. She held out against the battering of that expression, the walls of her fortress quaking slightly. “I met the woman yesterday, it’s been one day, I’m not certain how I feel about her or if I feel anything,” she added, an excuse showing that Aziraphale did get to her, if only slightly.

“I knew how I felt ’bout Aziraphale after one day,” Crowley murmured, mind still addled enough by sleep and injury he didn’t even think twice about the sort of things that slipped past his too-dry lips.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, soft and fond and completely enamored from that confession. “This long, really, my dear? Since the _garden_?”

“M-eh-ah-weh-er- …yeah,” Crowley admitted.

“Oh, you darling thing,” Aziraphale said, shifting his entire body to be even more constrictive in its embrace of the demon in his arms. Crowley gave a pleased sort of hiss at the sensation of Aziraphale on all sides.

“I feel like a voyeur,” Rome muttered, just loud enough for them to make it out, as she averted her eyes from the sickeningly affectionate display. “Alright, I can go this way.” She gesticulated heavily at the exit.

“Wait,” Crowley said with the slightest touch of urgency. All considerations to leave vanished from her mind as she heard his request. “What happened?”

“Sorry?”

“With-with Heaven and those people with the weapons?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, you sure you’re up for a story like that?” Rome’s question was one of complete interest in his wellbeing, which was disgustingly endearing.

“I want to be on the same page,” Crowley decided. He adjusted somewhat, easing his way away from the angel. He didn’t leave the cocoon of feathers, but he scooted himself up a bit, so he was sitting in Aziraphale’s lap more so than sprawled across it. “What happened?”

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed. “I was reading, when, all of a sudden light started streaming in from, well, somewhere. Voices saying that I was being recalled temporarily, I managed to get to the phone before I was, well, knocked out. I came to in restraints. It seemed that Gabriel and Beelzebub had been keeping an eye on us, collaborating, and they were dissatisfied with how things were going, so they decided to be a bit more… direct.”

“As far as any of us can tell, the people who went after you and me had nothing to do with what happened to Aziraphale,” Rome added. “The Order de Molay seemed like an entirely human concoction, but they did catch wind of me through the internet.[5] The leader, who was apparently dangerously charismatic, made a few correct guesses at the opportune time and was suddenly tracking me through online surveillance because he thought, well, he’s a religious fanatic.”

“So, what happened after I…”

“After you poofed me back to the hotel and left yourself in mortal danger?” Rome asked. “Which, by the way, Anthony J. Crowley, I may slap you silly if you ever pull a stunt like that again, selfless as it was.” Crowley made a melodramatic gagging sound in the back of his throat. Rome and Aziraphale both rolled their eyes. “Heaven left instructions on how to retrieve Aziraphale. I tried, well, I tried finding you other ways, but I couldn’t, so I ended up driving to Houston by myself the following morning. I got lunch, and then I got on some magical elevator.”

“You brought your lunch into Heaven,” Aziraphale added with a touch of judgment.

“If they didn’t want me bringing Chipotle to the pearly gates, they should’ve left more thorough instructions, and that’s a fact,” Rome replied. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter, Sandalphon confiscated it.”

“What did they want you to do for Aziraphale’s return?” Crowley asked.

“Explain how we were planning on interfering with the Great Plan,” Rome said. “And, well, I told the truth.”

“So, they know you’re pregnant?”

“Set them in a right fit, they didn’t know what to do with that information. They decided to tie me up as well under the guise of keeping me until they filed all the paperwork. Of course, they weren’t expecting someone to actually figure out how to get out of being tied to an office chair.”

“To be fair, I think some of your behavior contributed to their fit,” Aziraphale said.

“What do you mean?” Rome asked.

“You called the Archangel Gabriel a ‘feathered fuckface,’ to his… feathered fuckface,” Aziraphale said. Crowley laughed so suddenly that he started choking on nothing, still heaving with rolls of amusement.

“I meant it,” Rome shrugged.

“How’d you get out?” Crowley wheezed.

“Ah, yes, it turns out that Rome can, um, control reality a tad,” Aziraphale said. “She might’ve made a bit of a mess in Heaven.”

“You helped,” Rome reminded the angel.

“Yes, I suppose I did,” Aziraphale said. “Although I didn’t set a horse-sized duck loose in Heaven. Nor did I alter the architecture to involve quite harrowing slides in place of stairs. And I certainly didn’t have the propensity to completely alter the ambiance to massive rock.”

“Massive rock?” Crowley echoed.

“He means heavy metal,” Rome said. “I might’ve set the Heavenly sound system to only play heavy metal. Just the classics, you know. Slayer, Metallica, Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Guns and Roses, AC/DC, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Def Leppard, Motorhead, Scorpions, Slipknot.”

“Are you saying,” Crowley said with so much glee the attempt at a smile was hurting his burned face, “That it’s entirely possible, the angels of Heaven are listening to ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door?’”

Rome sounded a tad proud but mostly amused, “Actually, at this very moment, I think they’re being serenaded ‘The Call of Cthulhu.”

“They haven’t managed to sort it out?” Aziraphale asked.

“I don’t think it’ll be undone without my undoing, and I don’t think I’m going to undo anything until I get some thorough and sincere apologies,” Rome said. She said it with the sort of prim and polite voice that indicated she was incredibly diplomatic with her decision to accept apologies.

“That’ll never happen,” Crowley declared.

“Oh well,” Rome said, the regret in her voice was quite forced. “I suppose they’ll have to learn to enjoy it or suffer the consequences of their arrogance. Poor things.”

“Quite horrible of you, my dear, to punish them like that,” Aziraphale said, but his expression noted quite the opposite, they both were teasing.

“I still think the most horrible thing I saw in Heaven was Gabriel and Beelzebub flirting,” Rome added.

“ _What_?!” Crowley exclaimed.

“I noticed that they were collaborative, but I think ‘flirting’ might be an extreme way to describe their behavior,” Aziraphale said.

“Tell me, Aziraphale, does Gabriel often tease back-and-forth with his colleagues and give them pens to make their lives easier? Because that seemed a bit particular. He was a monumental asshole to everyone in Heaven – you especially[6] – except for Beelzebub.”

“They’re not – they can’t,” Crowley was still reeling a bit.

“There is another thing you should know, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Crowley wondered what else could possibly be revealed. “In the course of our escape, Heaven found out that we are married.” That, it seemed, somehow, things managed to be even more surprising and severe in sudden steepled escalations.

“Because you literally said, ‘I want to find my husband’ and then elaborated that none of them were invited to the wedding because they all suck,” Rome said.

“I suppose I did do those things,” Aziraphale admitted.

“You – you said that to Heaven?” Crowley asked.

“I did,” Aziraphale said, confidence wavering somewhat as Crowley’s reaction was unreadable. He added in a low voice, ebbing with uncertain humor, “To the Archangel’s faces.”

Crowley floundered, “Wh-what? Why?”

“Because we’re on our own side, Crowley, and I’m not letting anybody forget it,” Aziraphale declared, jittery. Crowley, in Aziraphale’s lap, suddenly slithered around in a complete half circle and gripped Aziraphale tightly in an embrace, not even caring about keeping the bandages on his face intact. His cracked lips, dried out and burned, pressed rough kisses into whatever bared flesh he could find. The kisses mostly caught on Aziraphale’s neck, exposed as he had undone the top few buttons for comfort. Aziraphale gave an abrupt sound of surprise and gratitude, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair and cradling his head. Rome took this as a cue to swiftly leave the room, close the partition, and reconvene with Jolene. Crowley’s mouth was sore and sensitive from his injuries, barely poking through the gauze and bandages, and yet he reveled in the feeling of it against Aziraphale’s warm, exposed flesh. Only until the burning sensation became too great to handle, did Crowley finally drop his face to Aziraphale’s shoulder and grip him with the small remnants of strength that the long rest had provided. Aziraphale petted Crowley reassuringly, whispering sweet nothings and silent reassurances to his husband, until he drifted back into a restful state, completely relaxed in the angel’s arms.

* * *

A DAY PASSED, and the Archangel Gabriel was still sitting in his office, reeling and shell-shocked from the events prior. It was so much information to process in such a short period, and none of it was written down on a neatly printed report[7] to be analyzed and considered in due time. It was all words and sensations, fast and hurried, a whirlwind of chaos that hadn’t belonged in Heaven since before, well, before the Rebellion. And it was a Rebellion, very clearly, the systems of Heaven were being opposed. And yet, the angel responsible hadn’t fallen. He prevented The War, he survived their execution attempt, he broke out of Heaven with a human, he married a _demon_ … what else would Aziraphale do? And, more importantly, most importantly, how?

The matter of the human woman was one Gabriel was also reeling with, but as much as he was aware of the magnitude of what she was, and what it meant, it was Aziraphale who took up more interest in Gabriel’s thoughts. Aziraphale was a personal embarrassment, more so than a pregnant human that no angel knew of. Of course, the human, he shouldn’t ignore the human. How had this happened without Heaven knowing? They had so many forms and committees dedicated for the second coming, once it was said by the first that there would be a second. Two thousand years of perfect bureaucratic systems, ready for the moment that it came. As it was understood, there was more than one way that the Great Plan could be fulfilled. The Antichrist was the much-preferred choice, a promised plan by Hell itself to finish the war started by their Rebellion. But the second coming had an equal apocalyptic opportunity, rumors of rapture and the Child of God finally defeating sin. Satan himself had been processed to official records, and the possibility of a Heaven-sought apocalypse had always been in the books, even though the subcommittees never fleshed out a proper procedure, the most executive office failed to give the needed information about the event.

And now it had happened: no committee meetings, no paperwork, not even a single inter-office memo. It was anarchy, and yet, it was, undoubtedly, an act of the Almighty. But how and why did She decide to go against the systems of her angels? It was the most perfect institution designed for Her will. Sitting atop her throne, being passed thousands of reports a day by the Metatron himself, how had she not realized how important it was to go through the proper channels? Of course, She was God, She was what She was, it would be foolish, blasphemous, and Fall-worthy to question her aloud, Gabriel had said so himself so many times. And yet, poor Gabriel was still reeling from his conversation with the woman. Her belief, nay, her insistence that the Throne of God was empty. Who would dare say such a thing? That was Her Throne! There was an entire sphere – the holiest sphere – the third sphere of angels dedicated entirely to carrying, protecting, and attending Her Throne. Only the Metatron was the messenger between the orders and operations of Heaven and the word of God. Surely, if anyone knew that this human woman was carrying the child of the Almighty, it would be the Metatron.

Gabriel found himself walking toward the Metatron’s sanctum. With every step, he was subjecting himself to the mortifying ordeal of working outside the bounds of the structure, documentation, and bureaucracy he had spent millennia perfecting. Many times, he stopped, half-managing to convince himself to turn around, go back to his office, and use the proper channels to submit a report. And every time, there was a different part of him giving gentle assurance. He was the Archangel Gabriel, this was necessary for dealing with an immediate problem, he was chosen by the Almighty Herself to be responsible for the interference with humans on Earth, and knowing her plans was vital. Understanding why this human had so much power, let alone the honor of carrying the second coming, was crucial. He was Her loyal servant and messenger, dedicated to upholding her plans. Surely, She had instructions for him. Or at least, the Metatron would. He always did. This was a crisis, his action being swift would be commendable, even if it skirted some rules – ones he wrote, of course.

To understand the extent of the professional violations Gabriel may fall victim to, one had to follow the incredibly complex and somewhat mind-numbing hierarchy of Heaven. You see, in Heaven, there are two different qualifiers for an angel: the role they filled and the sort of angel they were. For maximum confusion, angels used some of the same words to human ears to describe the nine types of classification. Take the angel Aziraphale, for example. As he said to Rome, he was indeed created by species to be a cherub. However, the role he filled was that of a Principality. He was not a principality, for he was in all metaphysical classifications, a cherub, but he was not filling the role of a Cherub and had not since the garden of Eden. It was quite prudent to add that angels could never work up. A seraph could fill the role of an Archangel, but an archangel would never be in the position to be a Seraph. The role they filled could be considered the “choir” they were assigned to, while their metaphysical predisposition was their “sphere” as it specifies when and where they were first created.

Have you managed to follow so far? Good, let’s continue. The third sphere was ranked seraphim, cherubim, ophanim. The third choir was ranked Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones. The second sphere was ranked dominions, strongholds, powers. The second choir was ranked Lords, Virtues, Authorities. The first sphere was ranked principalities, archangels, angels. The first choir was ranked Archangels, Principality, Angels. It did happen that the majority of angels, archangels, and principalities of the first sphere functioned as Angels in the first choir. Aziraphale was the only and singular Principality in the first choir as he was the single angel of any sort permanently stationed on Earth, as was the job description. They had expected their Principality to be a first sphere sort[8], but he was crafty at forging paperwork.[9] Sandalphon was the only Archangel who was an archangel. Initially, the Archangels had all been metaphysically of the third sphere, but professionally assigned to the first choir. There had been two cherubim and two seraphim, in the beginning. Gabriel and Uriel were both cherubim, while Michael was the remaining seraph. However, this did not mean that Michael was, professionally, any higher than Gabriel. It only meant that they were different in the same metaphysical sort of way, different variations of the same angelic stock.

The Metatron was a seraph who functioned as a Lord. He fulfilled some duties as a Seraph, being an attendant of Her Throne in some capacities. Still, unlike the other Seraphim who was responsible solely for being in Her presence, he was a scribe of sorts, responsible for regulating the duties of all lower choirs and spheres with Her command. For this reason, he functioned in the second choir more so than any other but was relegated to the presence and honor of the third choir and sphere. Metatron and Zadkiel were the only two Lords, Metatron responsible for regulating information and overseeing the first choir, and Zadkiel for managing the Virtues and Authorities in the second choir.[10] Zadkiel’s department was small, while Metatron’s was smaller, as the Metatron’s information and conference with the first choir were done directly through the Archangels. Therefore, he didn’t need a secretary, any couriers, or any of the vital support staff to his administration. He was the Lord’s scribe and delivered Her word for the Archangels to mediate.

The third choir, while the most venerated, did not go far in the way of divine authority. They were responsible for attending, protecting, and carrying Her Throne, although a few were tasked with alternative assignments. For example, the Seraph Seraphiel was the only Seraph who wasn’t posted at Her Throne, instead of the personal guard and attendant of the Metatron. Cherubiel was the head of the throne’s guard, the only Cherub who Gabriel personally knew because submitted reports on the state of the Almighty’s Throne once every seven years in person. Cherubiel’s reports were a thorough and easy read, very little happened. Gabriel had never seen a Throne, mostly because the Thrones were always with Her Throne, which was why they were called Thrones. This connection was so severe that some actually believed Her Throne was made our of Thrones, furniture made of heavenly bodies. This was not the case, but the rumor remained. No other members of the third choir were known, as they continued the most secretive, self-contained, and honored choir in Heaven.

The confrontation of the Metatron was a significant undertaking for the fact that he would be making demands to a higher power, so to say. The Metatron was of a higher power, and while he was not supposed to make orders as much as deliver them, making demands for an impromptu consultation was not something that any angel could do lightly, even an Archangel like Gabriel.

“Archangel Gabriel,” Seraphiel greeted Gabriel at the argentine doors of the Metatron’s sanctum. The doors were right beside the large, arching, glorious and gilded doors of God’s Throne and the third choir. “I didn’t know you had a meeting with the Metatron today.” Seraphiel wore a pressed white suit, a touch of soft steel on the angel-wing pin on her lapel.

“I didn’t,” Gabriel said. “There’s been a time-sensitive emergency on Earth. I need his conference, if not the Almighty’s, if possible.”

Seraphiel showed little response to Gabriel’s polite words. “Luckily for you, Gabriel, the Metatron can accept your conference in a few minutes.”

“How wonderful,” Gabriel smiled, it failed to reach his eyes.

“The celestial harmonies have changed,” Seraphiel said, noting the blaring music. At least this piece seemed a lot more instrumental than some of the last bits. Why human music tended to scream horrible things, it was a mystery Gabriel didn’t want to ponder.

“Ah, yes, we’ve recently changed to something a lot more… experimental. Human-inspired to, to inspire a better understanding of our mortal assignments.”

“If you are taking feedback,” Seraphiel said. “I don’t like it.”

“Duly noted.” Gabriel nodded as Seraphiel stepped aside. The door opened with a careful creak, and Gabriel stepped inside, reminding himself that as his duty as an Archangel, conferring with the Metatron of the circumstances of Earth, was vital.

“Ah, Gabriel,” the Metatron said. His sanctum was more substantial than an office, practically an entire library of his transcriptions from the Almighty’s mouth lining the walls, carefully pressed on silver-leaf paper. “I’ve noticed the music changed. Interesting lyrics,[11] I would say.”

“Experimental adjustment,” Gabriel said through gritted teeth and a bright grimace. “Reminding the host of the… consequences of the other side.”

“Oh, I was wondering, the Almighty didn’t express a new interest in a human type of music, very clever of you.” The Metatron smiled, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’ve had an issue on Earth, one that may be of your interest,” Gabriel said. “And of Her interest. You see, there is a human woman.”

“I assume there are many,” Metatron said, the touch of condescension in his smile was typical of an angel speaking to their inferior. Gabriel brushed it off, knowing why he did the same. The hierarchy was for a reason, of course, a small reminder of place went a long way.

“This one, in particular, has an interesting claim, she is allegedly pregnant with the Child of God,” Gabriel said.

“False messiahs are hardly a worry of my conference,” the Metatron said.

“Indeed,” Gabriel agreed. “Except, I met this woman, to investigate her claim. And, well, I do not believe she’s dishonest. I _felt_ the Almighty’s essence in her. I didn’t believe it, but the other Archangels did the same.”

“All of you visited this woman?” the Metatron asked.

“In a sense,” Gabriel nodded. “We’ll elaborate in official documentation as needed.”

Metatron waved him off and took a quite heavy seat in his silver wing-back chair. He steepled his hands and pressed his fingers against his lips, “You are certain?”

“Indeed,” Gabriel said. “I didn’t know if I should believe it. I assumed, like last time, the Almighty would have utilized angelic intervention in Her policy decisions. I was wondering, perhaps, if there were any specifications or orders on how the Archangels and the first choir should adapt to this divine act.”

“If the Almighty had any intervention for you, Gabriel, She would have specified before this point,” the Metatron said. “How far along is the human?”

“You don’t know?” Gabriel asked. The Metatron blinked at him, Gabriel stiffened, having forgotten himself, “Ten weeks,” he said quickly.

“And so, when will the child come?” the Metatron asked.

“I was never much of an expert in human biology, it’s disgusting,” Gabriel said. “But she didn’t look very pregnant, so I assume at least another few days.” [12]

“Hm,” the Metatron hummed in agreement. “Well, it’s clear why the Almighty has made this decision, I’m surprised you had to come to speak with me on the subject at all. With the failure of the Antichrist to bring about the war, She has decided to act, letting her own child be the one to bring about the destruction of Earth, so Heaven can finally annihilate the opposition. She kept the act so secretive so no interlopers could interfere, as it was with the Adversary’s attempt at bringing about the written prophecy of the Great Plan.”

“But she is working with the interlopers,” Gabriel said. The Metatron stilled considerably. “She is allied with them, not working _for them_ , but of her own free will, in fact, I wonder if they aren’t working for her. What more, she is not a mere vessel, she has manipulated reality in my presence like one would expect from someone not simply harboring the Almighty’s essence, but using it.”

“Are you questioning me? I speak for the Almighty, to question me is to question Her. Are you questioning Her?”

“Never,” Gabriel said. “But, I am concerned that Her Great Plan is being interfered with.”

“Then destroy the interlopers, it would not be the first time we had to dispose of a rogue angel, and I’m sure Hell wouldn’t miss a single demon,” the Metatron said. Gabriel held his breath, not that he often breathed at all, expecting a word of his collaboration with Beelzebub, but it never came.

“We tried,” Gabriel admitted. “The angel was immune to hellfire, and the demon to holy water.”

“Then there was a trick,” the Metatron argued. “You didn’t do it right.”

“We have reason to believe that the pair of them… bonded,” Gabriel said. “They claim, or Aziraphale claims, that they are married.”

“Any pair can declare being wed and wear rings upon their hand, that does not mean their matrimony is recognized by the Almighty, or binding by any means,” Metatron said. “And even so, I have heard nothing of marriage altering the physiology of our stock.”

“She has never spoken on the subject of marriage?”

“It is a human ritual,” the Metatron said.

“Performed between an angel and a demon makes it unprecedented,” Gabriel said.

“You are assigning meaningless rebellion some greater significance,” the Metatron said, shaking his head. “This is deception, plain and simple. No demon could love, and no angel could marry. Besides, we would have caught wind of it by now if it was of any significance, it would have appeared in our records.”

Of course, Gabriel remembered. The archangel Anael’s entire department of love, human relationships, and marriage had documentation of every legally and theologically binding marriage that had ever been or currently was on Earth. If they were not in Anael’s records, they were not actually married. Anael or one of her employees would have recognized Aziraphale’s name.

“There is another thing,” Gabriel said. “The human woman, Rome is her name, made a claim to the other Archangels and me. One that is highly blasphemous and dangerous, but I find it prudent you ought to know what the Almighty’s chosen vessel is saying. She has claimed quite ardently that the Almighty is not in Her Throne. She declares, further, that the Almighty has not been in Her Throne since before the Rebellion.”

“It is blasphemy,” the Metatron said shortly. “You ought not to repeat those claims to any other angel of any sort, you understand? The Almighty’s domain is of no question.”

“Of course, I agree fully,” Gabriel agreed. “But the danger is present.”

“Speak not of it,” the Metatron repeated. “Stop the interlopers permanently. And, if you so please, make sure that this human woman is not reluctant for the destiny of her child. The second coming signifies the Almighty’s commitment to Heaven’s victory in the war and the fulfillment of the Great Plan. If the mother shall be poison to the child’s destiny, remove the child from her presence permanently and place it where it shall be properly raised. Are these orders clear?”

“Of course,” Gabriel said. “Thank you for your counsel, Metatron. You’ve been as enlightening as ever.” He nodded politely, the Metatron nodded back, and Gabriel walked with the trained speed of his human exercise to Anael’s office. He needed this to be resolved as soon as possible. The Metatron’s words would be confirmed, as they always were, and Gabriel would be put at ease. He would return to his duties and none of this… anxious nonsense would distract him from the Metatron’s explicit orders, and therefore the Almighty’s orders.

“Archangel Gabriel,” Anael greeted. She was dressed in colors of pale rose and blush, her hair a vibrant and radiant gold, pinned in an intricate design of small braids. A human would have thought her hairstyle was reminiscent of a halo. “I like the new music. Is there any way I can help you?”

“Angel Anael,” he nodded in turn. “I need to look at your records recent to the last year.” Aziraphale had not worn a ring when he was sentenced to death and executed unsuccessfully. This allowed Gabriel to date the marriage to happening sometime since.

“It will take three to five business days for me to copy all those files,” Anael said.

“I don’t need copies,” Gabriel said.

“My annual report on human marriage trends isn’t due for another two months,” Anael said.

“Are you questioning me?” Gabriel asked darkly. Anael stiffened and shook her head. “I need confirmation that a marriage does or does not exist. If I give you names, could you find them?”

“I can check the index,” Anael nodded.

“See if there was any marriage of Aziraphale,” Gabriel said.

“The Principality?” Anael gaped.

“Do not ask questions. Just check your index!” Gabriel snapped. Anael nodded and lifted a hefty tome from a shelf behind her, flicking through a list of small serial codes, finger trailing over the symbols. A furrow formed on her brow as there was a code referring to a different system. She blinked as she looked at the number and suddenly grabbed the majority of the book and flipped to the very back page, in the bottom corner. She tapped thrice on the small section when she found it and went into her archives room, so large that perhaps the entire city of New York could have comfortably stood shoulder-to-shoulder, it was full of filing cabinets full of records on love and relationships.

Gabriel followed Anael as she went past the rows of cabinets, relationship files being updated by about a dozen angels, each one with a pushcart full of neatly typed transcriptions and collections of photographs and documents. Gabriel expected Anael to refer to a marriage record file somewhere in the first one or two rows. He was not expecting Anael to start walking in one direction with determination, ceasing to stop for a very long while. Gabriel knew that the filing rows were dated, as their labels said so. It seemed that once a relationship started, it was filed, and any updates to that relationship expanded the file until they had a complete report. They kept going to the back of the records room. They kept going further and further back, crossing the heavy golden line that marked the birth of Christ and continuing to the very most back wall. The first filing cabinet drawer had a neatly printed transcription: _Adam and Eve_. The drawer right below it was printed: _Crowley and Aziraphale_. The next nine filing cabinets had every single drawer labeled _Crowley and Aziraphale_. There was a tenth filing cabinet currently being updated by an angel who looked particularly exhausted.

“I don’t understand,” Gabriel said. “How was I never informed about this?”

“We were sent an official memo the day that mankind fell, and our office was established that we were only to put human romantic information in the reports and to keep all angelic and demonic records confidential,” Anael said. “This rule was never changed.”

“And you never considered it prudent to inform your superiors of an unfolding relationship between an angel and a demon?” Gabriel asked.

“I didn’t think it was my place to argue with an order from Her desk,” Anael said. “I did everything that was asked of me. You know, if the Almighty didn’t want this relationship to unfold, there probably would be some official memo or set of orders, right? Not that it’s my place to interfere in love, just study it, to honor Her.”

“I won’t speak of this insubordination if you keep this entire section a secret,” Gabriel said. “I want copies of all these files delivered in confidence to my office in the next twenty-four hours.”

“This file selection updates hourly, these days,” Anael said.

“Then give me hourly updates,” Gabriel said.

“Perhaps,” Anael said. “This would be a great opportunity for us to have someone beta-test our new digital system! It was an anonymous suggestion we received in our last systems report as a room for improvement, Uriel’s been developing a new system and information technology for the last decade. As I understand it, humans use technology to keep all their records on one metal and glass slab, and when the new files come in, they can be copied automatically to the slab! Infinite storage! It’ll be completely confidential, we can lock it to your metaphysical biometrics. It should revolutionize record-keeping.”

“Fine, just do it quickly,” Gabriel said. “And tell me, is there a marriage record in there?”

Anael went to the most recent filing cabinet and thumbed through it, “Yes, there is. A month old, about.” She slipped it out and showed it to Gabriel. Sure enough, there were the names in black and white: Aziraphale Z. Fell and Anthony J. Crowley were legally married in Clark County, Nevada. The stamp of the Almighty’s approval was in the top corner. The Metatron was wrong.[13]

* * *

[1] Crowley was not yet aware of some aesthetic changes that had occurred, and so the expected image of Aziraphale’s wings could only be taken from memory.

[2] You’re thinking about the song, aren’t you?

[3] Crowley did indeed realize that Aziraphale’s sleeves were rolled up, and he reveled in the feeling of where his paper-thin skin touched Aziraphale’s far more cushiony flesh as they were fused from finger to elbow. He wished desperately that he could open his eyes, if for no other reason than to see Aziraphale’s pale arms.

[4] This was odd as it was only the late afternoon. Most places would be open for a few more hours. Of course, the whole enterprise Jolene was hoping to visit was incredibly odd. So monumentally odd, that the hours were infinitesimally odd. For a woman who sought oddities her entire life, it wasn’t all that surprising her roots were in similar oddness.

[5] Rome had, since, deleted all social media and done her best to go as off-grid as she possibly could in the age of mass media and online profiles.

[6] Rome had a private treaty that if Gabriel ever talked shit in her presence again, he would get hit. And indeed, her treaty was approved significantly by the course of reality.

[7] No less than 1,235 angels were working on individual departmental reports for the incident. Still, they were yet to come, and none of them could substitute Gabriel’s own recollection, only clarify it.

[8] Of course, as principalities were the highest-ranking of the first sphere and angels could not work up, this mostly meant they expected their Principality of the first choir to be a principality of the first sphere.

[9] In modern times, Aziraphale used these skills to restore old books and bindings by hand, as the manual method was far more effective and satisfying than a miraculous one.

[10]Virtues and Authorities did not deal with the day to day issues of humans, but rather regulated and reported on metaphysical and physical concepts. It was these sorts of angels that were responsible for maintaining the geometric structure of Heaven, standardizing cosmological and quantum concepts, and understanding how features of creation changed with the application of entropy and eigenstates. To put it simply, Virtues and Authorities were the nerds and engineers of Heaven.

[11] _Mr. Crowley… what went on in your head? Oh, Mr. Crowley… did you talk to the dead? Your lifestyle, to me, seems so tragic with the thrill of it all. You fooled all the faithful with magic. Yeah, you waited on Satan’s call_

[12] One would think since Gabriel gave a message on the day of conception and then knew the date of birth, he should be able to calculate the average duration of pregnancy. That, however, would only make sense in a universe where Gabriel actually cared about humanity more than a chess-player cared for his pawns.

[13] Gabriel was so shocked that he didn’t even realize who the witness was on the paperwork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. As always, I appreciate all forms of feedback, especially comments! :)


End file.
